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o. 72 


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Daughter’s Sacrifice 


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AND 

PERCY FENDALL 

AUTHOR OF “ Sex to the I.ast,” Etc. 


yEir YORK 

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A NOVEL 



"Ay 


Pj^cT PHILIPS 


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/ ' 

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* 




A DAUGHTEE’S SACEIEICE. 


CHAPTER I. 

MRS. MARONI. 

When first Mrs. Maroni came to live in the quaint 
old village of Pencarvon, in Cornwall, many were tlie 
conjectures as to her antecedents and past life. It did 
not seem natural that a young and beautiful widow 
should forever remain inconsolable and eschew all 
society. And yet this is precisely what Mrs. Maroni 
did. It is needless to say that tlie gossips of the place 
determined that there must be something wrong about 
her — some terrible secret that slie was trying to live 
down, a secret which had caused her to seek refuge in 
this little out-of-the-way place. Poverty could certainly 
not be urged as an excuse, for Mrs. Maroni was evi- 
dently wealthy and lived luxuriously, and, as some 
said, extravagantly. She had taken a lease of a laige 
old-fashioned house in the neighborhood, after having 
tried the climate first, during a residence of a month 
at the village inn. The result of this trial had apparent- 
ly been a satisfactory one, for Mrs. Maroni entered into 
negotiations for “ The House,” and secured the lease 
of it for some years. 

Mrs. Maroni had two children, a boy and a girl — and 


6 


A DAUGHTER S SACRIFICE. 


her whole life seemed absorbed by them. If ever a 
mother was devoted to her children, to the exclusion of 
all else, that mother was Mrs. Maroni. She hated them 
to be out of her sight, and their slightest wish was, if 
possible, always gratified. When first she took posses- 
sion of “ The House,” as it was always called, the boy 
was about twelve years old and his sister some two 
years younger. The boy, Harold, had a resident tutor, 
and the girl an accomplished governess. If Mrs. 
Maroni loved her children with a kind of wild idolatiy, 
she did not on that account neglect their education. 
She was determined that they should have every advan- 
tage obtainable from learning, and in that respect, as 
indeed in all others, she conscientiously did her duty by 
them. Perhaps one of her greatest sorrows was when 
she was forced to part with Harold in order that he 
should go to Eton, but she bore the separation — the 
first that had ever taken place between them — with the 
courage of a Stoic, and did notallow her own sufferings — 
and they were sufferings, indeed — to interfere with 
what she knew to be her son’s permanent good. 

In these days Mrs. Maroni still wore widow’s mourn- 
ing, and gave that as an excuse for making no acquaint- 
ances. The clergyman, and various other busybodies 
of the neighborhood, called upon her and tried to ex- 
tract something from her as to her reason for settling 
in Cornwall, but Mrs. Maroni had a quiet and effectual 
way of evading questions without answering them, 
which left people, actuated by curiosity, more in the 
dark than ever. 

Years rolled on, and Mrs. Maroni continued to set 
herself resolutely against any social intercourse, and 
the neighbors marvelled at her dull life and the obsti- 


A BAUGHTBR^S SACRIFICE. 


7 


nacy with which she apparently still clung to her 
liusband’s memory. The great majority of her neigh- 
bors resented this, and were unable to find any excuse 
for what they termed the widow’s unfriendliness and 
ridiculous love of seclusion. 

Occasionally, Mrs. Maroni would absent herself for 
a week or two at a time, and these little journeys 
always gave rise to a fresh burst of scandal, but Mrs. 
Maroni paid no heed to it whatever, and when she re- 
turned to Pencarvon was, as the gossips declared, 
more mysterious than ever. To her daughter Alice, she 
invariably told the same tale — she was going to see her 
mother — and when, as a child, Alice would ask to be 
taken too, she would tell her that tlie journey was too 
long, and that grandmamma lived a long way off, and that 
travelling was very bad for children. Later on, when 
the gii‘1 was about seventeen, she again expressed the 
desire to see her maternal grandparent, and then it was 
that Mrs. Maroni told her for the first time that her 
mother had disapproved of her marriage and had 
always refused to see her children. Alice could hardly 
understand tins explanation, but she accepted it, as in- 
deed she accepted every statement made by her mother, 
with absolute faith. There were times when Mrs. 
Maroni was very sad, and it was in one of these mo- 
ments of depression that she confided this to her 
daughter; at the same time she begged her not to ask 
her any further questions. “ My life,” said she, “ has 
in the past been a very wretched one, but now I am 
happy with my children. I do my best to make them 
happy and they must ask for nothing more.” 

Alice loved her mother too well to cause her any 
pain, and, although she would dearly have liked to 


A UAUGIITFR'S SACBIFICU, 


8 

know a little more about her dead father, and what it 
was that caused her mother to lead such a secluded 
life, she respected her mother’s wishes and spoke no 
more on the subject. 

At the time this story opens Alice was nineteen, 
and her brother was then at Cambridge. She was a 
pretty girl, though it was doubtful if she would ever 
possess the great beauty of which her mother still re- 
tained traces. Mrs. Maroni was tall and had an ex- 
quisite figure, and she also possessed what are com- 
monly known as “ classical features,” that is to say, her 
nose was straight, her lips finely curved, and her eyes 
large and expressive. Alice, on the other hand, was 
small and had irregular features. Indeed hers was a 
sort of gamine de Paris countenance, hair coiffe a la 
chien^ small laughing blue eyes, and a nose and mouth 
of which nothing could be said except that they 
possessed the charming freshness of youth. The hand- 
somest member of the family was undoubtedly Harold, 
who inherited all his mother’s beauty of face combined 
with a fine manly English figure. Seeing that he liad 
all his life been spoilt, it was really wonderful that he 
should have turned out such an admirable specimen of 
what a young man ought to be. With no father to 
guide him, and only a mother’s idolizing love, he might 
have become extravagant and wilful and dissipated, 
and any of the hundred and one bad things that young 
men develop when only under the influence of petti- 
coat government. But he worshipped his mother, and 
for her sake, if not from principle or instinct, he took 
the right path in life and kept to it. When they were 
all at home it would have been difficult to have found 
a happier or more united family, search where you 


A DAUGHTjEjR’S sacrifice. 


9 


might. The young people used to say, like their 
mother, that they were quite indifferent to society, 
and they followed her example in making but few ac- 
quaintances. 

As this story opens it was within a few days of 
Harold’s coming home for the long vacation, and both 
his mother and sister were looking forward to his 
arrival with unbounded delight. Into Mrs. Maroni’s 
pleasure there entered, however, a certain amount of 
regret, for a day or two before she had received the 
announcement of her son’s advent, she had told Alice 
that her mother was ill and had repeatedly asked her 
to pay her a visit. She was sorry to lose the pleas- 
ure of Harold’s societ}^ even for ten days — or at most, 
a fortnight — but still the visit must be paid, and the 
presence of Harold would make Alice feel her mother’s 
absence less than if left alone in the great house. 

Alice had become so accustomed to her mother’s oc- 
casional journeys that she expressed no surprise at the 
announcement of this new visit. Mrs. Maroni was 
always depressed before these periodical Sittings took 
place, and seemed much more cheerful when she came 
home. So she was glad that this journey would be 
undertaken before Harold arrived, so that they might 
be all happy together when Mrs. Maroni returned. 
There was an old housekeeper — at least that was what 
she was called, though her duties in the house were 
very light and varied — who took charge of Alice dur- 
inof her mother’s absence, and on one or two occasions 
the young girl had tried to gather from her the true 
reason of her grandmother’s dislike to her father. 
The housekeeper, however, was inscrutable, and indeed 
professed entire ignorance of the matter, and closed 


10 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


the discussion by saying that in the first place she 
knew nothing at all about it, and, secondly, that if she 
did, she should keep the knowledge to herseelf. See- 
ing Mrs. James was firm, Alice desisted from further 
inquiry. The housekeeper had lived with Mrs. Maroni 
ever since Harold and Alice were babies, having orig- 
inally entered her service as nurse, so that Alice knew 
that the first part of her answer was untrue ; but she 
felt it useless to insist, and moreover began to think that 
it was scarcely fair to her mother to attempt to learn 
facts which she had plainly told her she did not wish 
to divulge. In the many conversations they had 
had together, Alice would sometime allude to the 
quietude and monotony of her life and ask if it were 
always to remain so, and if it was intended that she 
was never to marry. Then old Mrs. James would 
shake her head and declare that marriage was a risky 
undertaking, and that she had better remain happy at 
home than make an unfortunate choice as her mother 
had done. 

Occasionally Miss Maroni would be asked to a lawn 
tennis party or to a ball, but tlie latter festivity was 
always declined, and it was only under great pressure 
that she was allowed to go to the afternoon entertain- 
ment. On these occasions she had few opportunities 
for flirtation offered to her ; the men consisted mostly 
of curates, poor and discreet, and youths of tender 
age, who had no future to offer to a young lady who, it 
was known, would one day inherit very considerable 
wealth. So Alice had arrived at the age of nineteen 
and found herself heart-whole. Her mother was pleased 
that this should be so. She herself had had a stormy 
and eventful life, and had at last come to look upon 


A DAirGfJTER'S SACRIFICE, 


11 


man as a mortal enemy to woman. Later on, perhaps, 
Alice’s hand miglit be sought by some steady-going 
respectable squire, with an entailed estate free from 
encumbrances and a satisfactory rent-roll. But she loved 
her daughter too well to let her make a marriage merely 
for the sake of being married, and she hoped that the 
longer her daughter remained with her the wiser and 
the happier would be her ultimate selection. Mother 
and child rarely conversed upon this subject. Alice 
was shy of approaching the topic with Mrs. Maroni, and 
although she could not help seeing that most of the 
young girls in the neighborhood became engaged aftei 
they had been out two or three years, and sometimes 
thought about marriage in reference to herself, she was 
not particularly anxious to follow their example. 

It was a July evening, one of those rare periods at 
which the country in England is bearable for people 
who do not hunt or shoot, and Alice and her mother 
were strolling about the garden after dinner discussing 
the approaching arrival of Harold. They had neither 
of them seen him for some months, and Alice wondered 
if he would be much changed in appearance. 

“ Harold will never change,” said Mrs. Maroni. 
“ He has that bright healthy beauty which knows but 
little change. His features and complexion will always 
remain young.” 

“ Do you mean that I shall change because I am not 
so good-looking as. Harold ? ” asked Alice. 

“ You are both children,” answered Mrs. Maroni. 
“ People only alter when they get to my age.” 

“ And you are the most beautiful of the three,” said 
Alice affectionately, “ and you always will be.” 

Mrs. Maroni smiled. 


12 


A UAUGIirmrS SACBIFICK 


“ I used to be considered handsome once,” she said, 
“ but that is a long time ago now.” 

Her thoughts strayed back to the time when she was 
the belle of every place at which she was seen, and when 
every man was at her feet. How different was her life 
now ! A heavy routine of dull respectability — twelve 
months of the year shut up in a dull English country 
house with only three or four weeks’ break in which she 
paid certain flying visits to a certain fictitious mother. 
And yet she found no fault with the life she was lead- 
ing, and, indeed, had voluntarily imposed that life upon 
lierself. She had her children and she wanted nothing 
more. 

“ Beauty is a delusion,” she said aloud, although still 
continuing her train of thought. “ It is a greater curse 
to the possessor of it than to those who are supposed to 
be its victims.” 

“ It is not likely to be a curse to me,” said Alice 
gaily. “ And, according to your theory, I am better 
off without it.” 

“ You may take my word for it,” said her mother. 
And then they entered the house and rang the bell for 
prayers. 


A DATJOnTF^W S &AGmFlCE, 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

LEON DB TESLES. 

The next day Mrs. Maroni was en route for London. 
She had given Mrs. James, the housekeeper, final in- 
structions as to the preparations for Harold’s room and 
also as to her proper guardianship of Alice during her 
absence. The old woman liked the responsibility ; she 
loved her nurslings, and she knew, moreover, that they 
had a sincere affection for her. They always followed 
her advice, and of this article she had an unlimited 
stock to give away. In the early days of her residence 
in Cornwall, Mrs. Maroni had been in the habit of 
taking Mrs. James with her to act as maid when she 
absented herself from “ The House,” but now that 
Alice had outgrown nurses and governesses, she felt 
it wiser to leave her at home, and so she travelled alone. 
She arrived in London in the evening, and at once 
drove to a private hotel in Albemarle Street, and im- 
mediately inquired if Monsieur de Tesles had arrived. 
She was well known at the hotel, and she was treated 
with much respect by the proprietor, who showed her 
at once to a brilliantly-lighted apartment on the first 
floor, where, he said, the gentleman awaited her. Ldon 
de Tesles was a handsome man, with what the French 
call “ tired ” features, but they lit up as he caught 
sight of Mrs. Maroni, and he came forward rapidly to 
greet her. The man was evidently a gentleman, but 
looked like a worn-out viveur who had lived his life. 


14 


DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


He was between forty and fifty years of age, with hair 
slightly sprinkled with gray, but yet with a face which, 
when he smiled, looked still young and pleasant. 

“ You are late,” he said ; “ I have been expecting 
you for the last half-hour.” 

“ My train was late,” answered Mrs. Maroni. 
“Trains always are in England. I don’t know why, 
considering that punctuality is one of the many virtues 
English people claim as their own.” 

“ English people are very funny with their virtue,” 
said M. de Tesles ; “ I have been here for two days, 
and I have never seen a more immoral city in my life.” 

“ All big cities are immoral,” said Mrs. Maroni 
indifferently. 

“ That is why you live in the country, I suppose ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Exactly,” she answered. And then she added, “ I 
must take off my things. Is dinner ready ? I am 
positively starving.” 

“ Dinner, or what they call dinner in this country, 
has been ready for the last hour.” 

“ Then I will make no toilette. I know what your 
temper is when the soup is cold.” And she left the 
room. ^ 

L^on de Tesles smiled as the door closed upon her. 
He was always unfeignedly pleased to see her, she 
amused him more than any other woman, and their 
grande passion of bygone days had never become en- 
tirely extinct, although Mrs. Maroni had brought it to 
an abrupt close when she suddenly retired to the coun- 
try and determined to devote herself entirely to her 
children. These furtive visits amused him perhaps 
more than if he had been able to see her eveiy day. 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


15 


He paid for them it is true, and paid for them very 
dearly, too, but money was of no consequence to him. 
He was immensely rich, and the gratification of a 
caprice of this nature made no perceptible difference 
to his exchequer. In a few moments Mrs. Maroni 
returned, and had made herself look as charming as 
possible in the interval. She was quietly dressed in a 
plain cloth dress that set off her magnificent figure to 
advantage, and she had given just those slight touches 
of art to her face which a woman of her age requires. 

“ You have been making yourself beautiful, and 
have succeeded,” said M. de Tesles, looking at her 
admiringly. 

“ I have only put some powder on,” she answered 
frankly, looking at herself carelessly in the glass. “ I 
believe in the proverb, ‘ Spare the powder and spoil the 
face.’ ” 

“ I didn’t know there was such a proverb.” 

“No more did I until I invented it,” she said laugh- 
ing. 

“ And now tell me how are you all at Pencarvon ? ” 
asked the Frenchman. 

“ We are quite well. How could we be otherwise when 
we never have anything to disturb us? Our lives are 
the same all the year round. We never have even an 
epidemic or a mad dog in the village, and the only ex- 
citement I can recollect during the last twelve months 
was when the cows got loose and attacked a hay stack. 
People never die in Cornwall except from old age — 
and not often from that. I verily believe it’s the 
healthiest spot on earth.” 

“ And the dullest?” 

“ You would find it dull. I don’t.” 


16 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“ Then you still like your stables and your kitchen 
garden, and your pigs, and your pigeons, and the con- 
servatories ? ” 

She nodded her head. 

“ Yes ; I like peace and quietness,” she said. 

“ Even after ten years of it ? ” 

“ Even after ten years.” 

“And Mademoiselle Alice, is she not longing for 
another life, for a little more action ? ” 

“ She does not say so. She is quite happy, and 
knows nothing of the world except what I tell her, 
and you may be sure that I do not draw a very flatter- 
ing portrait of its attractions.” 

“ And yet the world has been kind to you.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” 

“ In a certain sense, yes. You have everything for 
which you could possibly wish. What more do you 
desire ? ” 

“ I suppose you are right. I might say that I 
should like to be able to go into a drawing-room with- 
out fear of being cJiassSed by its mistress ; but it would 
not be true. I have no such desire, and I prefer to 
remain at home.” 

“ And yet you abuse the world.” 

“ I don’t abuse the Cornwall world. I think it is a 
delightful one, especially so for my daughter ; but my 
opinion of the real world — the world as you and I 
understand it — is that it is a vile congregation of 
despicable humanity.” 

“ What a thrilling speech. Where did you get it 
from ? ” 

“ From my past experience, I suppose ; but I dare 
say I was a little more vehement than the occasion re- 


A BAITGI/TFR^S SACRIFICE. 


17 


quired. In reality I agree with the French philoso- 
pher who merely said ‘ que la vie est hete / 

“ He was quite right,” acquiesced the Frenchman. 

“ It is stupid ; stupid, commonplace, and unsatisfactory, 
even for people like ourselves, who have no illusions. 
What must it be for those who still have beliefs, and 
who are constantly being disappointed ? ” 

“Yes. I have done with all that,” said Mrs. Maroni. • 
“ I have no disappointments because I have no hopes 
and no ambitions. I live a dull country life ; but if I 
have no friends, I have, at any rate, no disillusions:” 

“ And you continue to shun your neighbors ? ” 

“ I continue to take the initiative. It is so much 
better to be beforehand in these cases. If I struggled 
into a dull society it would bore me to death. I sliould 
not only have the dulness to put up with, but I should 
be living in a constant state of terror that something 
respecting my past life might crop up. As it is, if I 
am dull — and Heaven only knows how dull I am — I 
have, at all events, peace of mind.” 

“ And you have ceased altogether to long for a more 
exciting life ? What do you do all day ? ” 

“ I read a great deal. When I settled in Cornwall I 
found my mind capable of much improvement, and I 
am doing my best to improve it.” 

“ You are a marvel,” he said, looking at her admir- 
ingly. “ Who would have thought when first I knew 
you that you would have ever settled down into an 
English country lady ? ” 

“ It is not veiy marvellous,” she said quietly. “ The 
love of the domestic hearth comes to every one sooner 
or later.” 

“ It has not yet come to me.” 

2 


18 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“ I am not so sure of that. Why do you like to see 
me ? lam not noisy or brilliant like your associates in 
Paris. I am humdrum and staid, old and passSe., and 
yet for the sake of bygone days you encounter the 
horrors of the Channel passage and spend a week or 
ten days in my company.” 

“ How can a woman of six and thirty be ‘ old and 
pa%%eeV To my mind you are more beautiful than 
ever. Your company brings me reminiscences of 
youthful days.” 

“ And youthful follies which it were surely wiser to 
forget. No, there is no accounting for these tastes 
which have not even the excuse of novelty. You in 
your friendship for me are every bit as unaccountable 
as I am in my love of seclusion.” 

“ You speak of my friendship for you — have you 
none for me ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ I owe you everything in life. Of course I have a 
friendship for you.” 

“ You did not say so always. Do you remember 
that day in Paris when we had our great ‘scene ? ” 

“ Yes, I remember it,” she said smiling. “ But I was 
younger then. It was ten years ago and I knew less of 
the world then. Now that I understand men and can 
follow their motives I have more indulgence to them. 
By-the-bye, how is your wife? ” 

“ I never hear anything of her. I suppose she is well.” 

“ Still in Italy?” 

“ I hope so. At any rate, she never comes to Paris.’ 

“ And Paris, delightful as ever, I suppose ? Is it 
much changed since I was there? 


A I>AUGIITJ!:ii\S SACniFICi:, 19 

“ There are a few new streets, a few new faces — 
otherwise nothing is altered. The shops always remain 
the same, the theatres always play the same pieces, and 
the same people have acted in them for the last twenty 
years. No, I don’t think you would find much altera- 
tion in Paris.” 

“ I suppose it is too late to go to a theatre to-night,” 
said Mrs. Maroni ; “ what time is it ? ” 

M. de Tesles looked at his watch. 

“ It is too late, and too hot,” he said, “ we shall enjoy 
ourselves much more sitting quietly at home, sipping 
our coffee.” 

Mrs. Maroni rose from her seat as the dinner came 
to an end and went to the window and looked out. 
There were three nigger minstrels opposite the hotel 
yelling forth discordant comic songs, and they looked 
up at her and grinned, as they held out their hats for 
money. 

“ How I hate London,” she said, withdrawing from 
the window and resuming her place at the table. “ For 
all the money in the world I would not live here.” 

“ Why do you hate it? ” asked the Frenchman. 

“ I hate its climate, its dimly-lit streets, its depressing 
air of gentility, and its total absence of light-hearted- 
ness and elegance. Every one seems in a hurry to 
make money here, and what do they do when they 
have made it ? They bore themselves to extinction in 
stupid grandeur, or make themselves miserable in 
ceaseless struggles to know people better than them- 
selves.” 

“ What a strange humor you are in to-night,” said 
M. de Tesles. 

“ I am always in a strange humor, if you mean by 


20 


A BAUGIITBR^S SACBIF/CK 


that that I am cynical,” she said. “ I confess I have no 
good-nature or tolerance for the faults of others.” 

“ And yet you require indulgence yourself ? ” 

“Not from the world. I ask no favors from it, and 
therefore I am not beholden to it.” 

“ I wonder if you will ever get tired of your country 
life, and look upon the world in a different light? ” 

“ I think not. Each time I see you, you ask me the 
same question, and ten years ago you predicted that I 
should not endure my solitude for more than six 
months, and yet you see you were wrong.” 

“ There is no accounting for women’s whims,” said 
M. de Tesles, lighting a cigarette. 

“ A whim that lasts ten years can scarcely be called 
by that name,” she answered, and then added almost 
passionately, “ and mine was certainly not the caprice 
of a blasSe woman. It was a violent craving to liide 
my real position and character from two innocent 
children who considered me perfection, for I felt that 
if ever they learnt their mother’s shame, I should be 
ready to cut my throat.^’ 

“ It would be a pity to disfigure . that plump, white 
throat,” said the Frenchman, puffing his smoke up to 
the ceiling. 

“ Yes, you can afford to speak lightly of my feelings,” 
she said bitterly. “ You who hold me in your power, 
and leven after twenty years make me obey you.” 

The Frenchman smiled. 

“You speak very strongly,” he said, “ surely what I 
exact from you is not very hard. A few days spent in 
London once or twice a year and that is all. Your dress- 
maker could scarcely ask for less.” 

“ A few days spent in London, and a bushelful of 


A BAUGIITEIV S SACRIFICE. 


21 


lies before I come and after I return — lies told my chil- 
dren who innocently believe every word I tell them, 
lies which make me loathe myself more and more each 
time I utter them.*’ 

“ Oh, yes, I forgot I was their grandmother,” he said 
smiling. “ After all, that is a very small fib. Every 
servant has a sick aunt when she wants a day out.” 

“ And I object to placing myself on a level with ser- 
vants. Every time I come I declare shall be the last.” 

“ If it amuses you to make that declaration, pray go on 
doing it. You know the alternative. If the mountain 
won’t come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the moun- 
tain ; and you know that I have always had a longing 
to see my — ^grandchildren.” 

“ I know that it is useless to quarrel with you, and I 
know that it is equally useless to plead for mercy. I 
suppose that things must go on as they are and I must 
make the best of it. Let us talk of something else. 
Shall I tell your fortune ?” 

“ By the cards ? ” 

“ Yes. It is the one remnant which I cling to of my 
former life. In the long winter evenings when I am 
tired of reading I do interminable rSussites., and some- 
times I give myself what the fortune-tellers call a 
‘cut.’” 

“ And does it ever come true ? ” 

“ Never, I am happy to say. I see presents from fair 
men with good hearts, letters from dark men and false 
women, disagreeable surprises and fresh acquaintances, 
sea journeys, and law papers. But it all comes to noth- 
ing, and my life goes on exactly the same.” 

“ I think I know my fortune,” he said. 

“ Everybody thinks so,” she answered; “and yet we 


22 


A DAUGHTEIVS SACRIFICE, 


are merely bits of straw blown about by good and bad 
winds. It takes very little to alter our destiny.” 

Mrs. Maroni was evidently in a moralizing humor on 
this particular evening. She and her companion con- 
tinued to talk thus until far into the night, and the 
Frenchman was much amused at her cynical mood. 
And yet he himself had tauglit her all she knew of the 
world and that kind of spurious philosophy of which 
she was rather proud. 

They had met at Cairo twenty years ago, when she 
was a girl of sixteen. Leon de Tesles was then living 
with his father, who was one of the richest merchants in 
the eastern capital, and he made the acquaintance of 
•Mrs. Maroni, who was then Miss Grainger, the daugh- 
ter of a man holding a small official appointment, at her 
father’s house. The young couple were*thrown much 
togetlier and speedily fell in love ; but on neither side 
did the parents view the attachment with satisfaction. 
Lion’s father merely declared that the marriage was 
impossible, and troubled himself no more about the 
matter ; while Mr. Grainger liad a horror of Roman 
Catholics, and vowed that his daughter should never 
marry one. 

So the young couple took the law into their own 
hands, and one fine morning embarked for Marseilles. 
It was here that Miss Grainger discovered that she had 
placed her faith in a worthless man, and that breaking 
the Fifth Commandment often speedily brings its own 
punishment. 

L^on, who was then only twenty-four years of age, 
informed his victim that a marriage was impossible, as 
he already had a wife living. They had been separated, 
he said, for the last two years, and he did not know 


A DAUGHTER'' S SACRIFICE. 


23 


what had become of her. He hoped he should never 
hear of her again, or at least not within the prescribed 
time allowed by the law for him to make another mar- 
riage. Meanwhile there was nothing to be done but 
wait patiently until he should be free. Would she 
consent to this arrangement? Of course, in the mean- 
time, he should consider her as morally, if not legally, 
his wife, and he would make every settlement for her 
future provision. Helen Grainger loved the man even 
after the confession of his perfidy, and the alternative 
of refusing his offer was not a rosy one. She dared not 
go back to her father, whom she knew perfectly well 
would not receive her, and her pride revolted at ex- 
plaining the situation to other relations. So tears were 
shed and the old well-known reproaches were cast at 
his head, but in the end Miss Grainger gave way and 
in due time returned with him to Cairo. 

Her father never spoke to her again, nor indeed did 
she ever attempt to induce him to do so ; and her life 
at Cairo was not an enviable one. Still she was young, 
and enjoyed the wealth which was placed at her dis- 
posal. She had a box at the opera, and wore almost 
more diamonds than all the harem put together. Men 
crowded round her, and she certainly enjoyed the free, 
easy life and the admiration she excited. She had 
plenty of money to spend, she could wander round the 
bazaars all day buying rich stuffs and jewels, and her 
house was a marvel of richness and good taste. During 
her residence at Cairo, Harold and Alice were born, 
but before they could speak they were sent to England 
in charge of the person who was now housekeeper at 
“ The House,” and then one day M. de Tesles’ father 
died, and he came into unlimited wealth. He quickly 


24 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


sold his interest in the house and returned to Paris 
with Helen Grainger. Madame de Tesles enjoyed a 
brief stay in the Capital of Pleasure, but during all the 
time there was no mention made of marriage. 

The real Madame de Tesles still lived, and regularly 
drew an allowance from her husband. If she knew of 
the liaison — and it is scarcely possible she could have 
remained in ignorance of it — she never alluded to it, 
and rumor went so far as to aver that she had consoled 
herself with an Italian tenor. Madame de Tesles num- 
ber two had long ceased to think of marriage. Ldon 
always laughed at the idea, and then suddenly she was 
seized with a wild impulse to put an end to it all. She 
had been on a visit to England to see her children, and 
the craving to be a good -mother and a respectable 
member of society in some unaccountable fashion pos- 
sessed her. In words little less brief than the c'est fini 
nous deux of “ Ma Camarade,” she announced her in- 
tention, and of course L^on de Tesles did not believe 
her. He knew that she was rich, that she must have 
saved much money during the years they had been to- 
gether, but he did not believe in such a sudden termi- 
nation to their happiness. Madame de Tesles, however, 
did not flinch from her determination, and in a few 
weeks she had installed herself at Pencarvon. She 
hoped never to see, never to hear anything more of the 
father of her children. But L(^on had other views. 
She was what he called une vieille hahitudey and he 
could not do altogether without her. He continued to 
make her an allowance of five thousand a year, but it 
was upon the stipulation that they should occasionally 
meet as good friends and nothing more. To this Helen 
acceded. Indeed she had scarcely any choice in the 


4 BAUGHTEWS SACllIFIGE. 


25 


matter, as her former lover might have hunted her out 
and revealed himself to her children if she had chosen 
to be obstinate. 

So she adopted a fictitious name, assumed fictitious 
mourning, and buried herself in the country. She 
loved her children devotedly and saved the greater 
part of her income so that they might have good 
fortunes when she should be no longer there ^ to watch 
over them. 

As she bid L^on good-night on this particular even- 
ing she said : 

“ I have only been in London a few hours, and I am 
already longing to be back at home.” 

• “ You are a model for all mothers,” he said with a 
yawn ; “ you pretend to be cynical, and yet you are 
overflowing with the milk of human kindness.” 

“ Scarcely that,” she said with a deprecatory smile, 
“ even a tigress loves her cubs, you know.” 


26 


A DAUGIITEE^S SACBIFICE, 


CHAPTER III. 

CAPTAIN MALLORET. 

Next morning Mrs. Maroni went out shopping. 
She went alone, as Leon de Tesles rarely got up until 
the middle of the day, while she, on the other hand, 
conformed to English habits and ate a hearty English 
breakfast. She was strolling up Bond Street looking 
idly in at the windows, when she was accosted by a 
man whose recognition of her evidently afforded her 
no pleasure. The man was a friend of bygone years, 
an Englishman who had known her at Cairo, and later 
on in Paris, and who had all her story at his fingers’ 
ends. He was a good-looking man of the dare-devil 
type, middle-aged and well dressed, but who, never- 
theless, did not inspire you with confidence. 

“ You are not going to cut me, Mrs. ? ” he said. 

“ Surely we are too old friends for that.” 

“ You evidently would not let me if I wished to do 
so,” she said with a smile. 

“I am bound to say that, as a rule, I hate to be 
recognized,” he answered. “ I owe money to almost 
every person I meet, so that I am never very eager to 
shake hands with my acquaintances.” 

“ Then what are you doing in Bond Street?” slie 
asked. “ Surely this is the most dun-infested street in 
all London.” 

“ I suppose it is, but my tradespeople have long since 
given me up as hopeless. It is only my friends who 
bother me.” 

“ That is worthy of a Balzac,” she said laughing. 


A DAUGHTER' S SACRIFICE. 


27 


“ And you ? ” he asked. “ I heard you were living 
in the country — that you had become chanoinesse or 
superior of a convent or something equally dignified. 
Is it true ? ” 

I am living in the country,” she answered, “ but 
not as a nun or a chanoinesse^ 

“ Where do you live ? ” 

“ A long Avay from here,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ Is it a convenient place for hiding ? May I come 
and pay you a visit?” 

“ No, you may not; I receive no visitors.” 

“ Then you are married ? And L^on de Tasles, what 
has become of him ? ” 

“ He is living in Paris,” she answered. 

“ I heard it was all over,” he said. 

“ Yes, it is all over.” 

“ And — are you married ? ” 

“No, I am a widow,” she answered, with rather a 
harsh laugh. “What I believe is known as a table 
dlidte widow.” 

Captain Malloret laughed. “ Ah, well, all things 
must have an end,” he said. ^ 

“ And the children ? ” 

“ The children are grown up.” 

“ Do they live with you ? ” 

“ Naturally. I am their only parent.” 

“ And that is why you refuse to see me.” 

“I see no one. I never have a visitor from year’s 
end to year’s end.” 

“ And you can’t make an exception in my favor ? ” 
“ You would not be able to stand the life. I have no 
attractions to offer you.” 

“ It would amuse us to talk over old times, and you 


28 A DAUGHTEB^S SACBIFICE. 

need not fear my being bored. If you only knew niy 
life here. I live with an alarming old widow in a dull 
Bay-swater terrace. She nabbed me by an advertise- 
ment in the Times^ and now she wants me to marry her- 
She has two children who lead me a life of perdition. 
But, after all, there is certainly one consolation,” he 
added, ‘‘ I never pay her.” 

“ And does she feed you ? ” asked Mrs. Maroni. 

“ She feeds me, she lodges me, she washes me, and 
she would even clothe me if I would let her. I tell 
you she loves me ! ” 

“ Then I congratulate you. Why don’t you marry 
her?” 

“ You must come and see her. That will be quite 
enough answer to your question.” 

“ Is she rich ? ” 

“ No. She advertised for a boarder, so I need not tell 
you that she isn’t a millionaire.” 

“ And you are stone broke ? ” 

“ I have been stone broke for the last ten years.” 

And your people, are they still alive and stony- 
hearted ? ” 

“ Oh, they are just the same as ever ; but now that I 
have anticipated everything, it doesn’t much matter how 
long they live. My uncle, old Lord Kingsborough, oc- 
casionally sends me a ‘ tenner,’ but that’s all.” 

And then Mrs. Maroni declared that Captain Malloret 
was interfering with her shopping, and told him that 
she had only a few days to spend in London, and a great 
quantity of things to do. 

“You must let me go with you and do your shop- 
ping,” he said, “ I can give you excellent advice.” 

So she laughingly gave him permission, and they 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


29 


started off together. After an hour spent in various 
shops, buying presents for Harold and Alice, and very 
little for herself, Mrs. Maroni said that she must return 
liome. “I am very hungry,” she said, “Tindam long- 
ing for my luncheon.” 

“Won’t you ask me to share it with you?” said 
('iaptain Malloret. 

“ No. You must have luncheon with your widow,” 
she laughed. “ I never receive people in the hotel.” 

“ Your rules of etiquette make you very inhospit- 
able, but I will ^ee you to the door.” 

“ You must leave me at the corner of the Arcade,” 
she said. 

And so Malloret strolled to the end of it with her, 
and then wished her good-bye. Pie watclied her walk 
up the street, and then, to his surprise, he saw L6on 
de Tesles come out of the hotel and walk towards her. 

“ So that’s it, my lady,” he said to himself, as he saw 
them greet each other. 

“ Then I was wasting my sympathy when I said ‘ all 
things come to an end,’ and you are not yet a table 
d'hdte widow.” 

And then he pondered over past times, and thought 
of the days when he had known her as the reigning 
belle of Cairo. “ How strange that she should have 
still kept up this acquaintance with Leon de Tesles.” 
It was only women who ever had such luck, he thought 
to himself. “Twenty-five years’ liaison with one of 
the richest men in France ! And now, even after that 
lapse of time, de Tesles came forward to meet her with 
delight beaming on each of his features. What fools 
men are ! ” he said. And then he decided that he 
must take her advice and go home and have luncheon 
with his widow. 


30 


A BAUGUTEIVS SACRIFICE, 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE POTTER FAMILY. 

Mrs. Potter, the lady who lodged, and fed, and 
washed Captain Malloret, was one of those miscalcu- 
lating people who take houses too large for them. And 
when she realized the fact that she had done so, she 
made it known to the world at large by an advertise- 
ment in the Times,, wherein she set forth that she would 
be pleased to retrieve her mistake by receiving a board- 
er with unexceptional references, “ preference given to 
a retired military officer.” The advertisement caught 
the eye of our friend. Captain Malloret, and he at once 
entered into negotiations with Mrs. Potter, the result 
being that within a few days he took up his abode in 
Clan William Terrace, and prepared to enjoy the 
“ cheerful musical society,” which the relict of the late 
Mr. Potter offered as one of the many advantages that 
residence under her roof would entail. 

The cheerfulness of the society was provided by 
Mrs. Potter’s own offspring, whom, after a few days’ 
acquaintance. Captain Malloret described as ‘^two out 
and out devils,” and the music consisted of Mrs. Pot- 
ter’s own efforts to render “ Let me dream again,” and 
“ I’m a merry little mountain maid,” in a voice which 
she modestly declared was “ not strong, but, as her 
friends told her, was very sweet.” 

After a week’s residence in this “ home,” Captain 
Malloret decided that nothing would induce him to 
remain there, but the days passed by and the widow’s 


A DAUGHTEIV S SACRIFICE. 


31 


gush increased, and remittances were not forthcoming, 
so he gradually allowed himself to drift into the life, 
and he liad now been there for nearly a year. 

Miss Potter was about sixteen, and was what is 
known as a “ romp.” Master Potter was a twin brother, 
with a cracked voice, which he occasionally displayed 
in a duet with his mother. Both brother and sister had 
lively minds and were fond of practical jokes, and they 
soon discovered that Captain Malloret was the very 
person on whom to practice their little pleasantries. 
The result of the cat’s latest confinement would invari- 
ably be deposited in his bed as soon as that oft-recur- 
ring event had taken place. They sharpened their slate 
pencils with his razors, and they would brush his hat 
the wrong way, and then call over the staircase, ‘‘ Who 
shot the donkey ? ” 

At first Captain Malloret had been furious, and had 
told Mrs. Potter that life in such a menagerie was im- 
possible, but the good-natured widow only sighed and 
said they had all been young once, and that she would 
speak to her children seriously. Whether she did speak 
to them or not. Captain Malloret never knew; but tlie 
jokes continued, and then the Captain spoke on his own 
account, and swore that he would batter their brains 
out at their very next offence. But the playful ones 
only laughed, and Tlieresa, the “romp,” made a face at 
him, and retorted with scathing sarcasm, “ Why don’t 
you pay ma ? ” and Augustus, who always followed 
her, had echoed “ Yes, why don’t you pay ma? ” This 
question Captain Malloret felt to be so unanswerable 
that he merely shrugged his shoulders and walked 
away, and what brains the flighty couple possessed re- 
mained in their heads. 


32 


A DAUGHTER'' S SACRIFICE. 


It was an awful life, especially for a man who had 
been in a crack regiment and had all his life been ac- 
customed to good society. But there was nothing to 
be done. If you fail to cut your coat according to 
your cloth, the result is a very sorry garment. And 
this is precisely what Captain Malloret had failed to do. 
He had always spent double his income, and provided 
for the difference by utilizing his friends for loans, vary- 
ing from five to five Imndred pounds. Naturally the 
time came when “ the worm turned,” and in fact these 
worms turned en masse., and now the gallant Captain 
was penniless and almost witliout a friend in the world. 
No wonder, then, that he swallowed the sentimental 
widow’s foolish flattery with the same gusto that he 
swallowed her food. The children were a nuisance, 
but they must be tolerated for the sake of the roof over 
his head and the bacon he had for his breakfast. As 
to any further intimacy, however, that was quite out 
of the question. He could never become a stepfather 
to two such monsters as he considered Theresa and 
Augustus. The widow gave him encouragement and 
«ven darkly hinted that she needed the protection of a 
man’s strong arm and powerful brain to balance her 
own giddy one. Malloret received these confidences in 
stolid silence and never even returned the burning 
pressure with which she squeezed his hand when she 
wished him good-night and bade him good-morning. 

The day after his meeting with Mrs. Maroni was 
Sunday, and this was always the worst day of the week 
for him. To begin with, there was early dinner — an 
institution which he looked upon in the light of a 
crime — and the family also remained much more at 
home than on week da3^s. When once they had paid 


A DAVGnT£;R’S SACBIFICK 


33 


their devotions at a neighboring chapel, they returned 
home and gave themselves up for the rest of the day to 
domestic harmony. The “ Leisure Hour ” was brought 
out and read aloud by Theresa until Mrs. Potter went 
to sleep, and then followed tea and muffins, enhanced 
by playful sallies on the part of the widow and puerile 
jokes on the part of the twins. After tea came a little 
music, and Augustus would seat himself at an old 
worn-out harmonium, and his mother with her hand 
upon his shoulder would deliver herself of “ Abide 
with me,’’ occasionally giving an arch glance at her 
boarder. After the music, came supper, and on this 
occasion, Mrs. Potter, undaunted by her lodger’s arrears, 
announced that she had provided a little extra delicacy. 
Captain Malloret had all the evening smelt a powerful 
aroma of onions, which had, so to speak, even overcome 
“ Abide with me ” and “ Hold the Fort,” and when 
Mrs. Potter made this announcement, he casually asked 
her what it was. 

“ Tripe ! ” said the lady, with a swelling look of 
pride. 

“ Tripe ! ” he ejaculated faintly, “ I don’t even know 
what it is.” 

“ It’s entrails,” said Master Augustus, “ but it’s jolly 
good all the same.” 

“ Do they never eat tripe in the army ? ” asked The- 
resa, in her most scornful voice. 

“ I suppose not, as I have never tasted it,” he an- 
swered. “ And Augustus’s description of it is certainly 
not very tempting.” 

“ You really should not say such things,” said Mrs. 
Potter, looking at her son severely. “ You will take 
0,way the captain’s appetite.” 


34 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE, 


“ It would take more than tripe to do that,” muttered 
Theresa, who never spared him. Nevertheless, the 
supper was not the success that Mrs. Potter had antici- 
pated. The sight of the tripe perfectly sickened the 
noble captain, and, with a disgusted look upon his face, 
he begged to be told why it was so “ flabby.” 

“ It’s boiled in milk,” said Mrs. Potter, with a hurt 
expression on her face. “ It requires great delicacy of 
preparation.” And then she added more humbly, 
“ Can’t I tempt you ? ” 

“ No, thank you,” said Captain Malloret. ‘‘ I dare 
not make the experiment.” 

Then there was a chilly silence, broken later on by 
Theresa inquiring if she and her brother might go to 
the play that week, they wanted to see the new bur- 
lesque at the Gaiety. 

“ I couldn’t let you go alone,” said her mother, 
“ and, as you know, I never go to the theatre myself. 
If the captain has an evening free perhaps I might in- 
trust you to his care.” 

But the Captain’s face expressed even more horror 
at this proposal than it did when the tripe made its 
appearance. 

“ I am afraid I haven’t an evening free,” he said, with 
a glare at Theresa. 

“ Oh, do take us,” said Augustus, getting up and 
putting his arm round his neck with infantile familiarity. 

“ I can’t,” gasped Malloret, whose disgust had now 
reached a culminating point. 

“Why not?” pleaded Augustus, still clinging to 
him. 

“ Because I loathe you all,” was on his lips, but he con- 
trolled himself and said, “ Sit down and I’ll tell you.” 


A DAUGHTER S SAGBJFICE. 35 

Then Augustus released his hold and departed, leav- 
ing a strong odor of onions in his wake, the benefit of 
which Malloret had full in his face. 

“ My children always go to the ‘ family circle,’ ” said 
Mrs. Potter proudly. There would be no occasion to 
be ashamed of them.” 

“ And ma would pay,” added Theresa spitefully. 

“ I was not thinking of that,” said Malloret, “ but 
I have some friends who are in London for a few days, 
and 1 expect I shall be much taken up with them.” 

Against this there was nothing to be said, so the idea 
was dismissed and the evening passed off amidst general 
gloom and depression. Mrs. Potter was not pleased at 
the haughty manner which her boarder had adopted to- 
wards herself and her offspring, and when she wished 
him good-night, and for the hundredth time received no 
acknowledgment of her gentle pressure, she determined 
that she would write to him and remind him of his 
obligations. As soon as he had retired to rest, she said 
to Theresa, “ Get me the pen and ink, child, I am going 
to write to the Captain.” Theresa did as she was told, 
and both she and her brother came and sat on either 
side of their mother, and with their elbows on the table, 
and their chins resting in their hands, they watched 
her indite the following epistle : 

“ My Dear Captain, 

“ When disagreeable subjects have to be mooted, it 
is pleasanter for all parties to write them. I feel I 
could not say to you what 1 am reluctantly making my 
trembling pen write. 

“ Dear Captain, when you entered my humble little 
home and agreed to pay me two guineas a week for 


36 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE, 


board and lodging, with use of piano and bath, I asked 
you for a reference. You told me that you were a 
nephew of the Earl of Kingsborough, and an officer and 
a gentleman. I believed you, and I do so still, even 
though it is now twenty -eight weeks since you settled 
your account. Were I a rich woman, or even possessed 
of moderate wealth, I would scorn to remind you of tlie 
fact, which doubtless you have forgotten amidst the 
vortex of society in which I have every reason to believe 
you move. But I am poor ; and rent, and rates, and 
taxes, and gas, and butchers’ bills must be paid, and 
it is for this reason that I again inclose your little 
account, with an urgent request that I may receive a 
check in the course of the week. Do not take amiss 
my little note, but believe that I am your attached 
friend, 

“Matilda Potter.” 

“ I think that will do,” she said, as she read it aloud. 

“ It’s not half strong enough,” cried Augustus, “he 
will only laugh at it.” 

“ Augustus is right,” said Theresa, “ it isn’t half 
strong enough. You should have threatened him with 
gaol, ma.” 

“ My dear child,” expostulated Mrs. Potter, “ re- 
member he’s a gentleman.” 

“ Then it’s a pity he can’t behave like one,” retorted 
Theresa. 

“May I take it up in the morning with his hot 
water, and wait for an answer ? ” inquired Augustus. 

“ Certainly not,” replied his mother. “ I object .to 
your doing menial work.” 

Next morning, however — it tlo^s not matter at 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


37 


whose hand — Captain Malloret received this pleasant 
little missive, and received it, too, with a string of 
oaths, and, when he had exhausted his blasphemy, he 
pondered for a few moments and then said to himself, 
I suppose I shall have to pay her. I must look up 
Helen de Tesles and see if she will not assist me.” 


38 


A DAUGUTEIVS SACRIFICE. 


CHAPTER V. 

CAPTAIN MALLOKET COMMENCES OPERATIONS. 

Captain Malloret wrote a very cross answer to 
the widow’s touching appeal. He was expecting some 
remittances in a few days, lie said, and he would 
doubtless be able to pay her during the present week. 
As a matter of fact he had nothing whatever in view, 
but he had made up his mind to call upon Mrs. Maroni 
and ask her to lend him a couple of hundred pounds. 
She was one of the few people of his acquaintance who 
had escaped his demands, and yet they had been great 
friends at one time, and she must surely have plenty 
of money to spare. If, however, he was unlucky 
enough to fail, then he would ask L^on de Tesles, 
whom he had known well in the Cairo days, and whom 
he felt could not possibly refuse his request. Still, it 
was Mrs. Maroni herself upon whom he actually set 
his highest hopes. 

Captain Malloret made himself look as spruce as 
possible, and fortunately the twins had not upon that 
occasion interfered with the gloss of his hat, and he 
was able to make a tolerably decent appearance. As 
he walked past tlie dining-room Theresa called out to 
him : 

“ Are you going out, Capting ? Shall you be home 
to luncheon ? ” 

“It’s not tripe this time; it’s hashed mutton,” 
added the irrepressible Augustus. 


A DAUGriTUR'S SACRIFICB. 


39 


“ I shall not be home till dinner,” he answered. 

“ There won’t be much for dinner, because cook’s 
got to go and see her daughter who’s got small-pox.” 
said Theresa. “ I think you’d better wait and have 
some lunch.” And then came a peal of laughter. 

Malloret made no answer, but went out and slammed 
the door violently. 

“ Haslued mutton !” he said to himself, and shud- 
dered. “ I must get out of that hole by some means 
or other. Another week of it would kill me.” 

And then he took the Underground to St. James’s 
Park, and from thence walked up to Albemarle Street. 
He scarcely knew in what fashion to ask for Madame 
de Tesles, but he mentioned the name indistinctly and 
left it to the waiter’s judgment to decide if it were Mr. 
or Mrs. he required to see. He was shown into their 
sitting-room, and after waiting for a few minutes Mrs. 
Maroni made her appearance. She was considerably 
surprised to see him and not altogetlier pleased, for she 
could easily guess the errand on which he had come, 
and moreover she resented the intrusion. 

“ You seem quite astonished to see me,” said he, 
holding out his hand to her. 

“Well, yes, I do not remember asking you to call.” 

“ Your memory seems altogether bad,” he answered. 
“You told me that all was over between you and de 
Tesles, and directly afterwards I ascertained that he 
was staying at this very hotel with you.” 

“ He is only here on business,” she said. “ What I 
told you yesterday was perfectly true — all is over be- 
tween us.” 

“ I am quite ready to believe you, especially as it is 
no concern of mine. But I will not beat about the 


40 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


bush. “ I, too, am here on business. I want you to 
lend me some money.” 

Mrs. Maroni smiled. 

“ Lend you some money ! ” she repeated. “ How 
do you propose to repay it ? What is your security ? ” 

“ Oh, you know I would not let you in ! Besides, 
it is not very much I want — only a couple of hundred.” 

“ Impossible, my dear Captain Malloret. I have no 
means of lending you such a sum without robbing my 
children, and I do not intend to do that.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” he said. “ You are as rich as 
the Rothschilds, and I really want the money.” 

“ I don’t know the exact amount of the Rothschilds’ 
wealth,” she said, “ so I cannot contradict you. I am 
sorry you are hard up, but you must not expect two 
hundred pounds from me.” 

“ Do you think de Tesles would let me have it ?” 

“ I don’t see why he should. He is in no way in- 
debted to you.” 

“ And you would do your best to prevent him, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ No ; I should leave him to use his own judgment.” 

“ I would give him a bill.” 

“ Which would only be so much waste paper. No, 
Captain Malloret, you fly at too high game. I will give 
you a tenner, if you like, for I know I shall never see it 
again. But do not ask me to lend you two hundred 
pounds.” 

Malloret hesitated. He did not know what to say. 
Mrs. Maroni had refused his request, and he did not 
quite see how he could make her give him the money 
by threats, or he would not have hesitated to use them, 
so he decided that he would take the ten pounds and 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


41 


utilize at any rate part of it in finding out where she 
lived, for he felt that if once he presented himself in 
the country, Mrs. Maroni might not perhaps be so ob- 
durate. There he could threaten her with exposure, 
and, surrounded by her children, she might not take 
such a high tone. 

“ I owe a hundred pounds where I live,” he said, as 
a last desperate effort, “ and they are always bothering 
me for money.” 

“ I am sorry for you, and still more sorry for the 
people with whom you live, but I see no reason why 
I should pay your bills.” 

“ I think friends might help each other,” he said, and 
added with a grim smile, “ it is only Christian-like.” 

“We will leave Christianity out of the question,” 
she said coldly. “ Will you have my tenner; j^es or 
no?” 

“ Of course I must have it and am very thankfnl to 
get it. Can’t you make it a pony ? ” 

“ I will see what I have in my purse,” she said, smil- 
ing at his piteous expression, “ I am really sorry for 3’ou. 
But why on earth don’t you live within your income ?” 

“ Income ? I have none,” he said. 

“And yet you ask me to lend you two hundred 
pounds.” 

“You know what I mean,” he answered crossly, “ I 
should pay j’ou back some day.” 

“ Yes, I suppose you would,” she answered, and then 
she counted out sixteen sovereigns from her purse and 
gave them to him. 

He took them with a very bad grace, and as he chinked 
them together in his hand he said: 


42 


A DAUGlimR'S SACRIFICE. 


“ Do you think it would be of any use to try de Tes- 
les?” 

“ I am sure it would not,” she answered, “ I told him 
yesterday that I had met you and he did not even re- 
member who you were.” 

“ I used to know him very well,” he said. 

“I daresay ; but people forget each other very quick- 
ly in this world.” 

“ Poor people are always forgotten,” he said bitterly. 

“ Always,” she assented. 

“ It is very lucky that he has not forgotten you.” 

“It is strange,” she said, “considering that I have 
given him every encouragement to do so.” 

And then Mrs. Maroni begged ber visitor to go, and 
told him that it would be absolutely useless for him to 
call again. She was going to leave town immediately 
and all her time was taken up. 

Captain Malloret had, as we have seen, plenty of 
assurance, but he could not very well remain after this, 
so he contented himself with making an inward reso- 
lution that they should meet again very soon. Sixteen 
pounds ! It was a drivelling, ridiculous sum ; and 
from a woman too who had thousands of pounds at her 
command, and the very shakiest of shaky positions. 
Still the clink of the money in his pocket was a wel- 
come sound, and promised well for the future. 

He walked to the Bristol and ordered an excellent 
luncheon, and drank plenty of champagne, and tlien he 
returned in high spirits to Clan William Terrace. 
The twins were out, and he thanked Providence for 
the welcome fact, and then he put on his airiest manner 
and demanded a private interview with Mrs. Potter. 
The widow received him graciously in her own parlor, 


A DAlTGflTER'S SACRIFICE. 


43 


and then Malloret opened the subject of the note which 
he had received that morning.. 

“ I will not hide from you that your letter pained me 
very much this morning, Mrs. Potter. It is not forget- 
fulness that has made me overlook your bill, it is 
merely a temporary embanassment that too often comes 
to. people who have their money invested in land. I 
have, however, been to my lawyer this morning, and he 
has promised me that I shall have my arrears paid in 
less than a month, in proof of this he has advanced me 
ten pounds, all of which I would willingly give you 
were it not indispensable for a gentleman to have some 
money in his pocket.” As he spoke he took out a 
handful of sovereigns and showed them to her and then 
awaited her reply. 

• Mrs. Potter rose and walked across the room to him, 
and, placing her hand affectionately on his shoulder, 
she said : 

‘‘‘ Captain, you know I have confidence in 3^011. I 
know a gentleman when I see one, and if I wrote to 
you last night, it was onl}^ under the influence of a 
threat to cut off the gas. Keep 3'our ten pounds, my 
dear Captain, and pay me when you can.” 

Captain Malloret, scoundrel as he was, was somewhat 
touched at this, and said rather sheepishl}" : 

“Will 3"ou take half, Mrs. Potter?” and he held 
out five sovereigns. 

“ Well, if 3^011 insist, I will,” she said, longing to take 
them all the time, “ but I wall not do so otherwise.” 

“It is just as you like,” he said, equally reluctant to 
part with* them. 

“ If I take them it is simply to please you,” she said, 


44 A DAUGHTER'^S SACRIFICE. 

possessing herself of the coins, “ and to show there is 
no ill-feeling.” 

“ Our feelings, my dear madam, remain the same,” 
said Miilloret, “ I shall always respect and admire you ; ” 
but he wished all the same that she had not taken the 
money. 

Poor Mrs. Potter was very weak as far as Captain 
Malloret was concerned, in the absence of her children. 
When goaded by them, or pained by unusual coldness on 
the part of her boarder, she would occasionally feel 
resentful and determined to have her money, but once she 
was alone with Malloret and underwent the influence of 
his courteous, pleasant manner, her heart relented and 
she would have given him all she possessed. Even now 
these five sovereigns burned in her hand and she longed 
to give them back to him, but fortunately for her at 
that moment the twins bounded in and put an end to 
any such folly. 

Malloret fled as soon as they came in and was seen 
no more until dinner-time, but the children were eager 
to know what had taken place. 

“Has he paid? ” they asked in one breath. 

“ He will pay,” answered their mother, “ he has been 
lo his lawyer, and the lawyer has advanced him some 
money.” 

“ How much? ” (in a duet). 

“Never mind — enough to pay the gas, and that is all 
I care to think about at present,” answered the im- 
provident lady, and then they bothered her with more 
questions. Might they go to the play now that she had 
some money ? They would go to the pit and walk 
there, and come home in a ’bus. 

“ I suppose I must let you go,” answered the weak 


A DAUGHTERS S SACRIFICE. 


45 


woman, who hoped for an evening alone with Malloret ; 
and then they danced round her and kissed her and 
asked more favors. Might they start that very moment 
and take some sandwiches with them and a couple of 
bottles of ginger-beer ? The theatre was sure to be 
crowded, for the burlesque was a great success, and 
unless they were at the doors early they would never 
get a front seat. To all this Mrs. Potter assented. 
She was sure at any rate of the Captain for that even- 
ing, and they would have a delightful tete-d-tete to- 
gether which would be all the more enjoyable as he 
was evidently in one of his rare good-humors. 

So the twins bounded upstairs and washed their 
faces and combed their unruly hair, and then proceeded 
to the kitchen to obtain the dainties that were to be 
eaten at the door of the pit, and then they ran up to 
Malloret’s room and after one loud bang at the door 
they burst in and bellowed out together : 

“We are going to the play and we don’t want you 
and we’ve got sandwiches and ginger-beer, and we 
shan’t be home till twelve ! ” 

Malloret looked at them in amazed silence, and then 
lie said slowly and deliberately 

“ I hope your ginger-beer bottles will burst and maim 
you both for life ! ” 

“ Do you ? ” said Theresa, suddenly losing her tem- 
per, “ do you ? And I hope you will like dining alone 
with ma ! ” With this parting shaft they tore downstairs 
falling over each other in their eagerness to get to the 
pit-door in good time, and then the door slammed with 
a loud bang, and once more peace reigned in the house. 

It may easily be imagined that Captain Malloret did 
pot relish spending an evening alone with bis landlady 


46 


A BA UG UTAH'S SACRIFICE. 


The occasions on which he had enjoyed this privilege 
had so far been rare, and he did not look forward to a 
lively time with her. Still he controlled himself into 
declining the temptation to go and spend money at a 
restaurant, and, like a Stoic, he made up his mind for 
the worst. Mrs. Potter “smartened herself up a bit,” 
as she herself expressed it to the maid-of-all-work who 
was bidden to come and assist at her toilette. Her 
newest black silk was donned for the dinner and she 
artfully tucked in the^wo top corners of lier bodice so 
that the snowy whiteness of her neck might be discov- 
ered. A profusion of rings were then placed on her 
large, red fingers, and a becoming arrangement of wliite 
lace surmounted the two rich black plaits which neither 
in texture nor color bore any resemblance to the rest 
of her hair. 

Malloret noticed these unusual additions to her 
ordinary attire and looked upon them as evil omens. 
Evidently the widow meant to put forth all her fascina- 
tions, and it was doubtful where she would stop when 
once her feelings were roused and the eigliteenpenny 
sherry had begun to take effect. 

“ You are quite smart to-night, Mrs. Potter,” said 
Malloret genially, as he took his pli^ce opposite her at 
the table. 

The widow smiled a complacent, good-natured smile, 
and then said with wliat she considered a very roguish 
look : 

“It is not often that I have the pleasure of dining 
alone with you. Captain, and I feel that I must do honor 
to the event.” 

“ You are always charming,” he said with a grateful 
xecollectiou of her disinterested remarks of the after- 


A DAUGUTEWS SACRIFICE. 47 

noon, and then he added, in order to keep her on safe 
topics : 

“ How quiet the house seems without the twins.” 

“ Yes, dear lambs, does it not? They are still such 
children, and I sometimes despair of their ever liaving 
any sense in their little feather brains.” 

“ They certainly are very childish,” said Malloret 
with great meaning. 

“ And so good-natured and affectionate,” added the 
mother. “ 1 think I’ve never met two sweeter dis- 
positions. Augustus is almost like a girl, he is so soft 
and pliable.” 

Malloret said nothing. He had his own views about 
their sweetness, but it was a subject on which he could 
not flatly contradict their mother. 

“ I am afraid you do not like children. Captain,” said 
the widow, after a pause, “ that comes of not being a 
married man. You have no idea what a solace tliey 
can be.” 

And then with affected confusion, and looking down 
into her plate she said : 

“ I wonder you have never thought of marriage.” 

“ I am too poor to marry,” said Malloret. 

“ But you might meet with some one who had a little 
money of her own,” said Mrs. Potter, still with down- 
cast eyes. 

“ I should require some one who had a great deal,” 
he said coldly ; and the widow felt that her hopes were 
dashed. 

“ Money is not everything,” she said with an effort ; 
“a warm, loving heart and a modest little competence 
would be enough for some people.” 

“ I daresay,” he answered carelessly ; but they 


48 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE. 


would not suffice for me ; besides, people in my rank 
of life do not possess warm, loving hearts or modest 
little competences, and I should never marry out of 
my own rank.” 

He hoped that that would be a final settler for her, 
but the widow rose again, and tried another tack— -the 
tack of jealousy and competition. 

I have often been asked to alter my condition,” 
she said. “ I cannot tell you how many offers 1 have 
had since dear Mr. Potter’s decease.” 

“ I wonder you have never accepted any of them,” 
he said, with genuine surprise. 

“ I could not give my hand where I did not give my 
heart,” she said, looking at him with a look in which 
was blended faith, and love, and hope. 

“ Then I suppose you will never marry again,” he 
said indifferently. 

“ I won’t say that,” she answered, again overcome 
by confusion. “ I won’t say that ; but I must have 
the right man.” 

“ Of course you must,” he assented, “ and I hope 
you will get him.” 

The widow sighed. She could not trust herself to 
speak, but the sigh spoke volumes, and an awkward 
silence reigned. Mrs. Potter broke it by again return- 
ing to the charge. 

“ Seriously speaking. Captain, why don’t you marry ? ” 
she said. 

“ I have told you, Mrs. Potter, because I can’t come 
across any one in my own position of life who has any 
money.” 

Then the landlady could fijid nothing more to say. 
gbe would like to baye been sure whether Captain 


A BAUGIirBli’S SACIilFICK 


49 


Malloret really considered his own position so im- 
measurably superior to hers. She was the widow of 
a gentleman who had been in business certainly, but 
they had never kept a shop, and nowadays she was told 
that many of the aristocracy wore in trade. Younger 
sons of peers and county magnates started dress-mak- 
ing establishments and bonnet shops, and still “moved 
in good circles,” and even went to court. Why should 
Captain Malloret allude to any social barrier, especially 
when it was well-known that “ love levels all ? ” 

“ Yes, I should not object to marriage if I could find 
a nice woman with a little money who was a lady,” said 
Malloret, laying a slight emphasis on the last word. 

“ Would you object to a widow ?” asked Mrs. Pot- 
ter boldly. 

“ Not if she were young and had no children,” an- 
swered Malloret cruelly. 

“ Children bring a blessing,” sighed the poor lady, 
almost in tears. 

“ It is the first time 1 have heard of their doing so,” 
he said ; and he thought of the twins and the curse 
they were to his life. 

“ I am going to get you a glass of my very best old 
port,” said Mrs. Potter, who had come to the end of 
her arts, and had determined to make a final effort to 
reach his heart through the medium of drink. “ I have 
very few bottles left, but Mr. Potter was always proud 
of his port.” 

“ You are too good,” said Malloret smiling, and the 
amorous widow tripped out of the room with her face 
more beaming than ever. But the port had no moi'e 
r effect than the blandishments and the V-shaped body, 
and the evening passed without Mrs. Potter having 
4 


50 


A dauguti;b's sacbifici:. 


]iad one word of encouragement given to her. It was 
a positive relief to both when the twins came home and 
recounted their evening’s entertainment. Captain 
Malloret had been doing his best to overcome sleep 
during the last hour, and his landlady had gradually 
become more depressed as the time passed away and she 
found her sallies only met by coldness and indifference. 

The. twins had so much to say: the burlesque was 
so lovely, such beautiful songs and dances, and then 
Theresa fixed the Captain with a most reproachful look 
and said : 

“ Your curse came true — one of the ginger-beer bot- 
tles did burst! ” 

“ Yes,” said Augustus ; “ we were in the front row 
of the pit ; we had to wait three-quarters of an liour at 
the door, and after the first act I took the ginger-beer 
bottle out of my great-coat pocket, and the cork sud- 
denly flew out, and all the contents went down a lady’s 
back in the last row of the stalls.” 

“ Yes,” continued Theresa, “ and you should have 
heard the scream she gave, and the language the 
gentleman used who was with her ! ” 

Malloret could not help laughing. 

“ She had on a ver^ low dress,” proceeded Theresa, 
“ and she was simply deluged ! ” 

“ She had to go out to be dried,” added Augustus. 

“ And then an attendant came to us and made us 
give up the other bottle,” said Theresa. “ It was so 
hard, because we were dying of thirst.” 

“ You have evidently had a very exciting evening,” 
said Malloret. And then he got up and wished them 
good-night, and retired to his own room to think over 
the best plan of extracting money from Helen de 
Tesles. 


A DAUGUTEIVS SACRIFICE, 


61 


CHAPTER VI. 

GEOFFREY KINGSTON. 

A FEW days after her arrival in London, Mrs. 
Maroni received a letter from her daughter announcing 
the advent of her brother, and telling her that he liad 
brought with him a college chum — Mr. Geoffrey King- 
ston. Alice told her that Mr. Kingston was a cliarming 

O ^ O 

young man, a little older tlian Harold, and that liis 
presence greatly enlivened the usual dullness of tiie 
house. And then she added that they were all longing 
for her mother to come back, and concluded her letter 
by expressing a hope that grandmamma was better. 

Mrs. Maroni decided to return at once. Truth to 
tell, she was somewhat annoyed that Harold had 
brought home a visitor without first asking her permis- 
sion. There was, of course, the excuse that her son 
did not know of her absence ; but still he was perfectly 
well aware that she objected to strangers, and that no 
guests ever stayed at the house. She told M. de Tesles 
of the annoyance that this episode had caused her, and 
that she had made up her mind to return home the 
next day. 

The Frenchman laughed at her for having this rooted 
objection to society. In her place, he said, he should 
be very pleased to think that the monotony of their 
lives was going to be broken. Then, too, the young 
man might turn out an acquisition, and, for all she 
could tell, might prove a desirable parti for her 
daughter, 


52 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“ But I don’t want Alice to many,” she said. “ At 
least, not yet.” 

“ And when is she to marry, then ? ” he asked. 
“ Are you going to wait until she is forty or fifty ? ” 

“ I should like her never to many at all”’ she said. 
“ I should live in constant dread of her husband finding 
out something about me, and I should never have a 
moment’s peace. You have read Le Fils de Coralie f 
Then you can understand my feelings.” 

“ These things are different in England,” answered 
M. de Tesles. “If a girl has a large fortune, as Alice 
will have, people don’t look too particularly into its 
origin. There are not so many legal formalities to be 
gone through as in France.” 

“ It would kill me if ever my children knew any- 
thing,” she said. 

M. de Tesles only shrugged his shoulders. His was 
not a mind that could enter into such fine feelings, and 
he was not hypocrite enough to pretend that it was. 

“ You have been so completely hidden for the last 
ten years that I think you need have no fear of detec- 
tion,” he said. 

“ There are always busybodies who find out one’s 
history, and very often scoundrels who are ready to 
speculate upon it.” And as she said the words she 
thought for a moment of Stephen Malloret. And then 
she added that she was longing to go home, and that a 
very considerable period would' elapse before she left it 
again. The h’renchman said nothing. He knew that 
when he should bid her come she would perforce 
comply with his request. So the next day Mrs. 
Maroni took her departure, and late in the evening was 
once more in her country home, 


A DAUGIirm^S SACHIFICI!. 


53 


Her son and daughter welcomed her affectionately, 
and she evaded their questions about grandmamma by 
asking them to tell her all about themselves. She was 
introduced to Geoffrey Kingston, Harold’s friend, later 
on. He had discreetly kept out of the way during the 
family greetings, but in the course of the evening he 
strolled into the drawing-room. Mrs. Maroni did not 
like his appearance. He was certainly a gentleman, and 
might pass for handsome. He was tall and had very close 
cropped dark hair which grew low down on his forehead, 
and he had regular features, the mouth being hidden 
by a heavy black moustache, but there was what is com- 
monly called a “ shifty ” expression in his eyes, and his 
smile was not frank. 

If Mrs. Maroni did not altogether like him, however, 
she soon realized the fact that her opinion was not 
shared by her daughter. Alice stole demure glances at 
him during the whole of the evening, and it was evi- 
dent that there already existed between them a kind 
of harmless flirtation which Mrs. Maroni decided she 
would at once nip in the bud. 

Her experience taught hel that it was only natural 
that young people who met constantly in the same 
house, should be drawn together and, sooner or later, 
fancy themselves in love with each other, and she was 
more than ever annoyed with Harold for bringing his 
friend toPencarvon. Indeed, when she was alone with 
her son, she told him as much, and said she thought it 
was an understood thing that she received no visitors. 

“ I fancied you would not mind making an exception 
in favor of old Geoffrey,” said her son. “ He is an 
awfully jolly fellow.” 

“I have no doubt he is,” answered Mrs. Maroni, 


54 


A DAUGIITFU^S SACmFICF. 

“ but I scarcely see why I should make an exception in 
favor of an utter stranger.” 

“ He is my greatest friend at Trinity,” said Harold 
warmly. 

“ How long is he going to stay ? ” 

“ I mentioned no time. I merely asked him if lie 
would mind being terribly bored in the country for 
a few weeks, and that I had no attractions to offer 
him.” 

“ A few weeks! ” gasped Mrs. Maroni. “ It is im- 
possible. He cannot remain so long.” 

“ You won’t find him in your way, mother,” said 
Harold. “He is out fishing with me all day, and in 
the evening we teach Alice billiards.” 

“ And I don’t want Alice to be taught billiards,” 
answered his mother sharply. “ I don’t want her to be 
taught anything by him.” 

“ Then do you mean to say that I am to tell him to 
go?” 

“ Not in so many words, but 1 cannot have him here 
for weeks together. You must make him understand 
that.” 

“ I will do anything you wish,” he said kindly, “ and 
I am sorry his presence annoys you. You have always 
let me have my own way in everything, and I did not 
think that you would mind my bringing him here for a 
short time. He has no parents and no home, so it was 
really a kindness to ask him.” 

“ T don’t like men with no parents and no home,” 
said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ It is not his fault, poor fellow,” said Harold. 

“ I dare say not, but young men who have no refining 
influences are not the sort of people I care to throw 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE. 55 

with Alice.” And then she added “ Has he any 
money ? ” 

“ Not much, I am afraid. But, after all, he’s a 
gentleman, and that’s better than being rich.” 

“ It used to be,” said Mrs. Maroni, “ but I think 
things have changed within the last few years.” 

“ I don’t wish to question your judgment, dear 
mother,” said Harold, after a pause, “ but surely Alice 
is not to lead a nun’s life. She must know people 
sooner or later.” 

“ She herself expresses no wish to go into society,” 
said Mrs. Maroni. “ She is quite happy with her pres- 
ent life if you are not.” 

“ I am always happy when I am at home,” said he. 
“ My only sorrow is in leaving the best and kindest 
mother in the world.” 

“ You are both good, dutiful children,” answered 
Mrs. Maroni, “ and I did not mean to speak unkindly 
hf your friend. I am quite content that he should stay 
here for a short time. Only keep him out of doors as 
much as you can, and don’t let your sister and me have 
too much of his society.” 

So the little cloud rolled by, and the domestic hori- 
zon was once more clear, but there were other clouds 
gathering in the future, which, when they showed them- 
selves, would be both black and threatening. 


56 


A DAUGJITjEB^S SACHIFICK 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE BEGINNING OF LOVE. 

Geoffrey Kingston did his best to ingratiate him- 
self with Mrs. Maroni, but quite early in his visit he 
plainly saw that she had taken a dislike to him, or, at 
least, resented his intrusion. But he liked the dull, 
quiet life of Pencarvon, and he determined that, short 
of a decided hint, he would remain there as long as it 
pleased him. He was great friends with Harold, and 
Alice’s fresh beauty and total unconventionality inter- 
ested him. If she was not actually lovely, she was quite 
pretty enough to flirt with, and for a man with no home 
or “refining influences,” as Mrs. Maroni had put it, 
such a life was very enjoyable. Alice held very much^ 
the same opinion of him. He w^as very nice to flirt 
with, but then her ideas of young men and flirtation 
were limited. She scarcely knew the meaning of the 
latter word, and certainly would not have been able to 
give a definition of it if called upon to do so ; but she 
thought young Kingston very handsome, and she liked 
the compliments he paid her, but whether this was love, 
or merely an ordinary liking, she would have been un- 
able to say. They scarcely ever met, save in the pres- 
ence of either Mrs. Maroni or Harold, but occasionally 
in the evening GeofiPrey would ask her to play, and then 
he would hang over the piano and turn over the leaves 
of her music, and murmur soft words of praise which 
brought the color to her cheeks, and which irritated 
Mrs. Maroni, who felt powerless to interfere. 


A I)AUGUTER‘'S SACRIFICE. 


57 


A fortnight passed, and still Mr. Kingston remained 
at Pencarvon, not having as yet received the hint that 
should determine his departure. Mrs. Maroni had be- 
come accustomed to him and even liked his careless, 
outspoken way of conversing. If it had not been for 
Alice she would actually have enjoyed his presence. 
When alone with her he was courteous and deferential, 
and yet he spoke cynically and cleverly of the world in 
a way which amused her, and reminded her of some of 
her Paris friends. But, with all this, she gathered that 
he was not the husband for Alice. He had avowedly 
no money, and her daughter would be given twenty 
thousand pounds on her marriage, and had, therefore, 
every right to be particular as to whom she chose. 

A few days after her return to Pencarvon Mrs. 
Maroni received a visit from some influential neigh- 
bors, who informed her that a grand lawn-tennis tour- 
nament was about to be given at their place, which was 
some ten miles off, and they begged that Harold and 
Alice might assist at it. Mrs. Maroni at first demurred, 
and said that she so rarely had the pleasure of her son’s 
society that she could not bear him out of her sight 
during his few weeks’ vacation. The lady who was 
calling upon her was a Mrs. Perry, and she made light 
of all these obstacles ; she had two daughters, and she 
declared that young people must enjoy themselves, and 
that it was selfish of parents to wish to keep them al- 
ways by their side. So, after much persuasion from 
her, Mrs. Maroni gave her consent, and even mentioned 
that she had a visitor in the house to whom she begged 
Mrs. Perry to extend her invitation. 

When the young people heard of it they were 
naturally delighted, and the approaching tournament 


58 


A DAUGHTERS SACEIFICE. 


was the principal topic of their conversatio-n for the 
next few days. They spent the mornings in diligently 
practising the game — at least, Alice and Harold did. 
Blit Geoffrey Kingston said from the first that he 
would never be up to tournament form, so he sat 
lazily watching them with Mrs. Maroiii, and talked 
nonsense to her about the humbug and hypocrisy of 
the world. Mrs. Maroni would have been very wel- 
come had she cared to accompany the young people to 
the Perrys', but it was well known that nothing w^ould 
induce her to leave her home, so that no one ever 
thought of asking her now. Kingston was puzzled by 
her obstinacy in refusing all invitations, and made 
various little attempts to draw her out on the subject, 
but Mrs. Maroni knew the world too well to make 
him any confidences, and his questions were quietly 
but effectively parried by that excellent mistress of 
fence. 

Kingston had sufficient intuition to be quite certain 
that there was some reason for Mrs. Maroni burying 
herself in this out-of-the-way place. She did not come 
there on account of having friends in the neighbor- 
hood, and she resolutely set her face against all social 
intercourse. She had not the plea of ill-health even, 
and to urge that she mourned a dead husband would, 
of course, be ridiculous. If she could talk, as she did 
occasionally to him, in a hard, reckless manner, show- 
ing no belief in the higher qualities of man, it was 
very evident that she could cherish but little respect 
or regard for her husband’s memory. Kingston felt 
that he would like to know her past, but it was plain 
that accident could alone divulge it to him. Clearly 
Mrs. Maroni would not do so, and her visitor was too 


A daitgiiteh^s sacrificf. 


59 


well-bred to ask impertinent questions of her children. 

When the day came for the Perrys’ festivity, Alice 
put on the new dress that lier mother had brought her 
down from London, and looked a charming picture of 
fresh girlish ingenuity. They were to be driven by 
Harold in his dog-cart, and Geoffrey Kingston did not 
much appreciate the long drive, seated with his back 
to the person to whom, in his own selfish way, he 
was gradually becoming attached. But Harold said 
that the mare was fresh, and that no one could drive 
her but himself. Coming back, she would be all right, 
and Geoffrey could take the reins if he liked, but it 
was essential that they should arrive tliere in good 
time and with their flannels uilsoiled by a spill ! 

So Mrs. Maroni went as far as the gate with them, 
and bade them enjoy themselves, and then returned to 
the house without any presentiment of the terrible 
trouble which this day would bring forth. 


60 


A DAUGUTAUi'S SACJlIFICA. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MALLORET DECIDES TO PAY A COUNTRY VISIT. 

Captain Malloret lost no time in ascertaining in 
what part of the country Mrs. Maroni had hidden her- 
self. A few days after his interview with her he called 
at the hotel, and was quite prepared to hear that she 
had left London. Such a detail, however, was of no 
importance to him, and he had a little story ready 
which perfectly well answered his purpose. Madame 
de Tesles had intrusted him with some jewellery to 
mend, he said, and although she had given him her 
address in order that he might forward it, he had for- 
gotten it, or lost it, and he would be much obliged if 
the proprietor of the hotel would write the address on 
a neat little box (which he produced) and so save him 
any further trouble. 

Madame de Tesles had been a visitor at this hotel 
for the last ten years, and her country address was per- 
fectly well known to the proprietor and his wife, but 
still they hesitated. She had made a request, some 
years ago, that her address should be given to no one, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Dawkins remembered this injunction. 
Noticing their hesitation, Malloret said : 

“You will recollect 1 came here a few days ago with 
Madame de Tesles, and it was then that she gave me 
this box and with it her address, but I have either lost 
it, or else I must have torn it up.” 

The proprietor remembered him perfectly well, and 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


61 


was so deceived by his nonchalant air, that he over- 
came his scruples and proceeded to his office, where he 
wrote the direction on the box. This was all that Mal- 
loret desired, and he beat a very speedy retreat when 
once he had gained the desired knowledge. The mo- 
ment he was in the street he looked eagerly at the 
address, and then his face fell. 

“ ‘ The House,’ Pencarvon, Cornwall,” he read. 
“Surely that must be near the Land’s End !” he said 
to himself. “ What a God-forsaken place to go to I 
No wonder she said she lived a long way from London.” 
And then he hurried home, anxious to consult an 
“ A B C,” and to impart the news of . his approaching 
journey to his amorous landlady. At first he had 
thought of writing to Mrs. Maroni and renewing his 
demand for the two hundred pounds, with a hint that 
if it were not received he might feel compelled to come 
and fetcli it himself. And then he argued that corre- 
spondence would very likely be a waste of time and 
lead to nothing, and tliat it would be better to present 
himself in proprid persond^ when a refusal would be 
well-nigh impossible. When the captain readied Clan 
William Terrace he had finally settled on this latter 
})lan, and was already in high spirits at the certainty of 
its success. 

“ I want a railway-guide, Mrs. Potter,” he called out 
loudly, bursting into the parlor, “a ‘Bradshaw,’ an 
‘ABC,’ anything and everything that will tell me the 
shortest and most expeditious way to Cornwall.” 

“ Lor, captain, you quite startled me ! ” said the good 
widow, who was busily engaged in completing the twins’ 
education and correcting the sums she had given them 
in the morning. 


62 


A DAUGHTER S SACRIFICE. 


“ Are you going away ? ” asked Theresa, with a look 
of mistrust tempered by partial relief. 

“ Yes, I am,” he said sarcastically. “ My heart bleeds 
to have to leave you, my precious Tlieresa, for even a 
few days, but the best of friends must part, and for the 
next week I hope I shall find no cinders in my boots 
and no kittens in my bed ! ” 

Theresa tossed her head and made no reply. 

“When are you coming back?” asked Augustus, 
lifting his head from the intricacies of dividing X769 
17s. lOid. by 19. 

“I am coming back when the spirit moves me, and 
when I have collected the rents with which to pay your 
dear and excellent mother all I owe her,” answered 
Malloret, still in capital spirits. 

Mrs. Potter smiled. The prospect was a delightful 
one certainly, and she had perfect faith in its realiza- 
tion ; but a sudden doubt chilled her smile as she 
heard Theresa say, with a meaning that was obvious : 

“ Are you going to take away your luggage ? ” 

“ I could scarcely travel without clothes,” he an- 
swered airily, “even a convict needs a change some- 
times;” and then, “Why, are you afraid that I shall 
never come back ? ” 

“ I am not afraid on my own account,” said Theresa 
dryly. 

“And you need not be afraid on your mother’s,” 
answered Malloret rather crossly. “I am not in the 
habit of running away from places where I owe mone3^” 

“And you are going to Cornwall?” asked Mrs. 
Potter. “ That is a long way off.” 

“Where is Cornwall?” inquired Augustus, whose 
geography, like his arithmetic, was somewhat weak. 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


63 


“ I know where it is on the map,” said Theresa, proud 
of her knowledge ; “ it is quite in the corner, the south- 
west corner, and right on the sea.” 

“ You know a great deal more than I do, then,” 
said Malloret ; “ but perhaps you will tell me a little 
more, and find out how long it takes to get to a place 
called Pencarvon, and likewise the amount of the first- 
class fare.” 

With a very bad grace Theresa complied with tliis 
l equest, and then Malloret, being rather taken aback at 
finding how much he would have to pay, suddenly be- 
came serious and said to Mrs. Potter: 

“I am very sorry to leave you, Mrs. Potter, but 
business must be attended to, as doubtless you very 
well know, and I hope not to be absent more than a 
week at the most.” 

“We shall be very glad to see you back, captain,” 
said Mrs. Potter cheerily. 

“Very,” echoed Theresa, with a disagreeable inflec- 
tion ill her voice. 

Malloret did not reciprocate this sentiment. Hum- 
bug as he was, he could not bring himself to say that 
he should be pleased to see them all again. He fully 
intended to* discharge his debt to Mrs. Potter, or at 
any rate part of it, if he obtained the money; but after 
that, Bo7i soir la compagnie. 

No more Clan William Terrace and odious twins for 
him until he was again brought to the very direst pov- 
erty. He went upstairs and proceeded to pack the 
remnant of his once handsome wardrobe, and Mrs. 
Potter continued her course of instruction. But the 
news had upset them all, and it was not easy to verify 
sums of compound division and what Augustus called 


04 A BAUGUTEU^S SACRIFICE. 

“ substractioii ” when your heart was in a flutter and 
your thoughts elsewhere. 

Theresa was the first to throw up the metaphorical 
sponge. 

“I can’t do lessons now,” she said. “It seems so 
strange the captain going away.” 

Augustus followed her- suit and threw down his 
slate with a haggard look of bewilderment, and then 
inquired of his mother if she thought of allowing her 
boarder to remove his boxes. 

“ Of course I do,” replied that good lady proudly. 
“ I am not one to pay myself with people’s old clothes, 
and 1 am sure the captain’s wardrobe would go a very 
little way towards paying me what he owes. I have 
darned his socks till tliere is scarcely anything left of 
them but my own worsted, and there’s not a shirt he 
possesses that does not owe me a pair of cuffs.” 

“ All the more reason, then, that you should retain 
them,” said the violent Theresa. “ Mark my words, 
he’ll never come back.” 

“ Theresa, don’t say anything so horrible,” answered 
her mother. “ I firmly believe that he’s going to fetch 
some money and that I shall be paid in full.” 

“ I wonder why he is going to Cornwall,” continued 
the young lady. “We have never heard him mention 
it before. His uncle, the earl, lives in Berkshire. I’m 
sure he’s drummed that into our ears often enough.” 

“ Earls often have two or three places in the coun- 
tiy,” said Augustus sapiently; “there’s one in the 
‘ Family Herald ’ this week that has places in five or 
six different counties, and a wife hidden in a secret 
chamber of each.” 

“You mean ‘The Bigamist, or Cursed from his 


A DAUG If TER' S SA CR IFTCE. f)5 

Birth,’ ” said Theresa revelling in the title. “Yes, I 
know he has ; but I think that'one of his wives will turn 
out to be his mother.” 

“Very likely,” said Augustus. “You are always 
clever at guessing the end.” 

“ I think I can guess the -end of Captain Malloret,” 
said Theresa. “ He means to do a skedaddle.” 

Then Augustus laughed a loud boyish guffaw that 
irritated his mother more than anything else, and she 
told them to put away their books and go out for a 
walk. She must see the captain privately before he 
left ; so when they had both departed she went up to 
his room, and after having timidly knocked at his door, 
she peeped in and said : 

“ Can I help you with your packing, captain ? ” 

She did not wait for the refusal which she knew he 
would give her, but walked straight into the room and 
looked with dismay at the chaotic state of his clothes. 

“ You naughty man, what havoc you play with your 
things to be sure,” she said, beginning to fold up some 
coats ; and then she added with a sigh, “ Ah, and if it 
were only with your clothes that you played havoc ! ” 

“I think I can get on very well alone,” he said, 
longing to get rid of her. “ I am used to packing my 
own things.” 

“ There is no one like a woman for putting every- 
thing in its place,” she said, declining to take his hint, 
and then she stopped, and looking him full in the face 
she added, “ and packing is not the only place where 
she is indispensable.” 

“So I believe,” he said coldly. “I have always un- 
derstood that she is indispensable in the kitchen.” 

“ You are right,” she answered, not in the least of- 

5 


6(5 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


fended by his remark ; “ many is the dainty little dish 
I have cooked for you myself, captain, and which you 
have praised in ignorance of its real author.” 

“ I am sure you are very kind, Mrs. Potter,” he 
said, “you must let me thank you now.” 

This dogged affection and persistent clinging was 
very embarrassing. Would she never realize that it 
was impossible for him to feel any tiling for her but a 
common sort of gratitude inspired by her reticence in 
asking for her bill ? 

“ I do not wish for thanks,” she said, “ but I should 
like to ask a favor of you before you leave — a favor 
which, as a gentleman, I am sure you will not refuse 
me.” 

“ I will certainly grant it if I can,” he answered 
rather doubtfully, “ but if it is to ask me to give you a 
bill at three months for what I owe you, let me tell you 
beforehand tliat it would only be so much waste paper. 
I shall probably have some ready money next week and 
then you will be paid.” 

“ You are greatly mistaken in what I mean,” she 
said, with an injured look. “ For Heaven’s sake don’t 
let us talk about money on the very eve of your de- 
parture.” 

“You are right,” he said, at once brightening up, 
“ let us talk upon any other subject but that.” 

“ I want you to give me a solemn promise,” said 
Mrs. Potter. “ I want you to promise me upon your 
word of honor as a gentleman, that you will return to 
me.” 

“My dear Mrs. Potter,” he answered, smiling, “I 
have already told you that I shall not be away more 
than ten days. I can’t say more.” 


A DAtTGIimn^S SACliTFiCJS:. 07 

“ It is not for the sake of iny little bill,” proceeded 
the widow in a pathetic voice, “ but it is because I 
know that if 1 were never to see you again I should die ! ” 
And then at the thought of so terrible an event she 
began to cry, and burying her face in her pocket- 
handkerehief she allowed herself to drop in a mass into 
a chair which contained all Malloret’s clean shirts. 

Malloret looked up hbrrified. He was not prepared 
for a scene, and he was furious that his shirt fronts 
should be made to support the full weight of Mrs. 
Potter’s ample figure. 

“ Pray, don’t cry,” h-e said, rather crossly. “ Of 
course I am coming back ; and, Mrs. Potter, you are 
sitting on my shirts.” 

“ I can’t help it,” sobbed the widow, not heeding the 
latter part of his remark ; my feelings must have a vent, 
and it’s a mercy that tears have come to my relief.” 
With her face still buried in her handkerchief Mrs. 
Potter put out her hand as if seeking from one of 
Malloret’s a sympathetic squeeze, which she felt would 
be the only thing to bring her to. Malloret took the 
plump hand in one of his own and attempted to raise 
her from amidst the dShris of his shirts, but the widow 
had not done with her hysterics, and drawing his hand 
between both of hers she murmured : 

“ Captain, do not leave me.” 

This was becoming intolerable, and Malloret felt 
that he must put an end to it. Mrs. Potter was sway- 
ing herself backwards and forwards in the chair, and 
he knew that not a single shirt would be fit to be worn 
by the time she had done crying.” 

“You are really ridiculous,” he said, making another 
ineffectual effort to get her on her feet. “ I never saw 


68 ^ DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 

anything so perfectly absurd, and pray, remember that 
I am going into a strange country where I liave no 
credit with the washerwoman ! ” 

“ If you w^ere to put your arm round my waist I 
might get up,” she sobbed, ‘‘ but I feel so weak and 
depressed — in fact, I feel undone.” 

“ I won’t put my arm round your waist,” he said 
angrily, at the same time casting away her hand. ‘‘•If 
you like to make a fool of yourself I am not going to 
join you.’’ 

Then Mrs. Potter uncovered her face, and drying 
her eyes, looked up and said : 

“You never will understand me. I was born to be 
misunderstood — and yet we might be so happy.” 

“ I understand you perfectly,” he said, with the air 
of a persecuted heroine who is being made love to 
against her will ; “but if we are to remain friends you 
must never act again as you have done just now.” 

“ And you will come back ? ” 

“I have already told you so twenty times,” he 
answered. “ And now what is to be done with these 
things ? ” he added, pointing to the heap of crumpled 
linen, which Mrs. Potter disclosed as she stood up. 

“ I will run downstairs with them, and give them an 
iron with my own hands,” she said. “ Will that please 
you ? ” and then, approaching him with a bewitching 
little smile, “ and shall I liave no reward ? ” 

Malloret burst out laughing. She looked so ridicu- 
lous, standing there with her mouth pursed up, that, 
even, though he felt angry, he was unable to control his 
merriment. 

“ You are very absurd,” he said, “ so absurd that I 
can’t even be angry with you.” 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE. 


69 


“ Just one,” pleaded Mrs. Potter, with the very arch- 
est of smiles. 

“ Not half a one,” roared Malloret, and he flung' him- 
self upon his knees and proceeded to cram the things 
into his portmanteau, while Mrs. Potter withdrew from 
the room without saying another word. 

Next day Malloret left London and ensconced him- 
self in a first-class carriage en route for Pencarvon. He 
had gathered that it was only a little village containing 
some four or five hundred souls, and he was wondering 
what sort of accommodation he would find when he got 
there. He hoped that his persuasive powers might be 
sufficient to induce Madame de Tesles to accept him as 
a guest ; but of this he felt doubtful. But he had little 
anxiety on the subject of the money of which he was in 
quest, and that, after all, was the principal thing to be 
considered. Perhaps he would only have to stay there 
one day or at most two days, and lie could put up with 
a little discomfort for the sake of returning to London 
with plenty of money in his pocket. His thoughts on 
the whole were not unpleasant ones, and he even found 
time to appreciate the beauty of the scenery and the 
refreshing look of the country, which was very welcome 
to him after the long months he had spent in Clan 
William Terrace. 

He arrived at Pencarvon in due course of time and 
ascertained that the Station Hotel was an establishment 
capable of providing every comfort. If it did not pos- 
sess the luxuries of a West End hotel it was, at any 
rate, clean and homely, and its host was ready to give 
him every information respecting the neighborhood'. 

Oh, yes, he knew Mrs. Maroni, the lady at “ The 
House,” and a very nice lady she was too, always doing 


70 


A DAUGHTEKS SACRIFICE. 


some good in tlie village and keeping herself to herself. 
Some of the parties thereabouts complained that she did 
so too much and was stuck-up like — still, that wasn’t 
liis opinion. She had stayed in his house for a month 
when she first came to the country and there wasn’t a 
sweeter lady to be met with anywheres, and as for her 
son and daughter, tliey were just as pleasant as their 
mother, and he couldn’t say more. 

All this was told Malloret as he was eating his dinner, 
in answer to many artfully put questions ; and then, 
when the repast had come to an end, Malloret an- 
nounced his intention of going out for a stroll and he 
wandered in the direction of ‘‘The House” to take a 
good look at Mrs. Maroni’s home. He determined that he 
would call upon her the next day as an ordinary visitor. 
There should be no preliminary letter to put her on 
her guard ; and then, if she were alone, he would make 
his demand, and, if not, he could do so by corre- 
spondence. He was pleased with the look of the house 
— it was a fine building, and all the surroundings spoke 
of wealth. The grounds were well kept and he could 
liear merry voices in the distance, laughing and talking 
at their final game of lawn tennis in the dying twilight. 

Why should they all be happy and careless of the 
world’s sorrow when he himself was cursed by poverty 
and all its attendant miseries. Their gaiety almost 
made him desperate and long to plunge into their very 
midst and tell them whence came the money which 
gave them their present enjoyment. 

But he controlled himself and said, “ No, to-morrow 
will do. They may laugh to-day and cry to-morrow ! ” 
And then lie turned on his lieel and walked back to the 
hotel. 


A DAU'GJIT£Ii’S SACIilFICK 


71 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE GARDEN PARTY. 

When the Maroni party arrived at the Perrys’, they 
found that they were almost the latest comers. Geof- 
fry Kingston was glad of this; he did not care about 
lawn tennis, and he was perfectly well aware that he 
would be bored to death before the day came to an end, 
but Harold and Alice were all eagerness to begin, and 
were the first to suggest that the draw should at once 
take place. They were both good players, and hoped 
to be returned winners at tlie end of the day if they 
liad luck, and could manage to get drawn together ; 
and, if not, then one of them must win and thus 
support the reputation of the family. 

A mild air of animation reigned on the terrace over 
looking the tennis ground, and it was evident that the 
young men and maidens wlio were about to display 
their prowess considered it a most exciting event. 
They hurried backwards and forwards making eager 
inquiries of each other. 

“ Who have you been drawn with?” “You know I 
liave hurt my hand.” “ I can never play when any one 
is looking at me.” “How do you like my dress?” 

“ Who is that good-looking man with the Maronis ? 
Does he play well ? ” and so forth. 

There were two daughters of the house, pretty 
blondes with amiable faces, who were busy arranging 
setts, and endeavoring to make everything agreeable 
all round. Some of the county big-wigs were very 


72 A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 

exclusive and objected to their offspring playing with 
people of whom they knew nothing, and there were old 
ladies who declared that the sun was blinding them, 
and others who said that the wind was very chilly and 
that they must have their shawls brought to them. 
The Perry girls were equal to all these and other 
demands ; they were accustomed to these large gather- 
ings and enjoyed the fun of them. They were thor- 
oughly good-natured people, not very refined perhaps, 
and their one ambition seemed to be tliat all should 
amuse, themselves as much as possible. 

Kingston looked on with a mild sort of contempt, 
and he said to Alice, whose side he scarcely ever left, 
“ It is a kind of world’s fair — everybody talking and 
laughing at the same time.” 

‘‘ It is a very pretty scene, is it not ? ” she answered 
simply. 

“ It is a very noisy one,” said he. 

“ The Perry girls have always plenty to say for 
themselves,” she said. 

“Yes, they lool^ like the proverbial cat on hot 
bricks.” 

“ You are very unkind, when they are doing their 
best to entertain us all. Do you think them pretty ? ” 

“ Not so pretty as some one else here,” he answered, 
with an admiring glance at her own fresh face. 

“ Harold admires them very much,” she said, ignor- 
ing his remark. 

“Them? Do you mean to say that he is in love 
with them both ? ” 

“ I don’t know about being in love — you are always 
talking of love, Mr. Kingston. I think if Harold has a 
preference, it is for the elder one, Marian.” 


A DAUGIITBlf:S SACIilFICK 


73 


“ If I am always talking of love, it is because it is 
uppermost in my mind, I suppose. Do you know 
that a man can’t get on without love ? ” he said. 

“ I don’t know anything about it. I suppose Harold 
will fall in love some day, but I shall be very sorry 
when he does.” 

“ Wliy do you always talk about your brother ? 
Why not talk about yourself ? ” 

“ Because I have always heard that it was very 
selfish and ill-bred to do so,” she answered, smiling. 

‘‘ Then be selfish and ill-bred to please me,” lie said. 

“ I think the Perrys are a more interesting subject,” 
she said guardedly. “They are prett}^ girls, they go 
to London every year, and can talk about everything 
that is going on, and they are also heiresses. They 
must be more interesting than I.” 

“ Are they heiresses ? ” he said, with a languid air of 
interest. 

“ Yes ; there are no sons, and they will inherit all 
this property.” 

“ Then they will soon find husbands,” was his 
answer. 

“ They may not care to find them,” said she. “ They 
will probably mistrust all mankind. In fact, one day 
the elder one told me so. She said that they had 
quantities of proposals in London, but they all came 
from penniless younger sons who wanted to improve 
their positions.” 

“ They are evidently worldly-wise already,” said he, 
“ and wish to be loved for their own sweet sakes. 
Well, it will be difficult to find a husband in these 
degenerate days who is perfectly disinterested.” 


74 


A daugiiti:b^s sacbifice. 


‘‘ And yet how abominable the man must be who 
would only marry for money,” said Alice. 

‘‘Yes, I suppose so,” he answered lazily. 

In the meantime, while this conversation was taking 
place, Harold was paying his court to the elder Miss 
Perry. They already had a kindling of affection for 
each other, which required but little fanning to develo]) 
into a veritable flame. Miss Perry liked his boyish, 
frank nature, and felt sure that if he admired her it 
was not for les heaux yeux de sa cassette. lie liked 
her because he was bound, at his age, to fasten his early 
affections on some one, and Miss Perry was about the 
only young lady with whom he had been thrown into 
contact. Thus, then, their love was not very idyllic, 
but it might later on develop into genuine passion if 
the circumstances presented themselves. Harold and 
INIarian had drawn together in the tournament, and so 
far fate had been propitious to them, and they found 
many little op[)ortunities of saying those soft “ noth- 
ings ” which are the forerunners of more serious flirta- 
tion. 

The Perrys were wealthy, but the source of their 
wealth was not very pure. Indeed it sprang from rum, 
which is doubtless a comforting and sustaining beverage, 
but which has caused more drunkenness amonor our 
noble tars than probably any drink extant. In these 
days of what may be conventionally called “ social 
democracy,” the profession of a rum distiller is rather 
looked up to than otherwise, and the Perrys had most 
doors open to them, both in London and in the country. 
A well-known duchess offered them her visiti no-list and 

o 

invited people to their balls, and the result was that they 
somehow found themselves the verj^ cream of fashion- 


A DAUGHTI^Il’S SACIilFICK 


75 


able society. It, however, behoved the Perry parents 
to be very careful in the selection of husbands for their 
daughters, and thus it came about that they agreed that 
birth must be a sine qua non^ even if not accompanied by 
wealth. Mrs. Maroni’s surroundings were too obscure 
and mysterious to permit them to think seriously of her 
son as a future husband for their darling Marian. Young 
Maroni was certainly a gentleman, and iTad received a 
gentleman’s education, moreover he was good-looking 
and pleasant in liimself, but still there was never any 
mention made of Maroni pere, and pedigree was wliat 
they desired above all things. On this particular day, 
therefore, Mrs. Perry did not view with any satisfaction 
the innocent flirtation which was being carried on under 
her very eyes, and that excellent lady was very glad when 
the game came to an end. As fate would have it, how- 
ever, Harold Maroni was successful in each of the setts 
he played, and therefore he was bound to continue 
playing with his partner until they had vanquished all 
their adversaries. Then, when they were finally declared 
the winners, there was a great scene of congratulation 
and triumph. They were besieged on all sides with 
compliments and praise — some hearty enough, others 
into wliich entered a little of the spite of the dis- 
appointed player. In some minds there is a substratum 
of envy, hatred and malice and all uncharitableness. 
This must always be so as long as original sin remains 
in the world. The famous divine was not far wrong, 
who told the lady who asked him what his opinion was 
of original sin, in more emphatic language than we care 
to repeat, that we should be a good deal better with- 
out it. 

Marian Perry was delighted with her success. It 
was, perhaps, not very well-bred to display such genuine 


76 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


satisfaction in the face of her defeated guests, but she 
found it very difficult to conceal her pride. Then, too, ! 
she was pleased that Harold Maroni should have been ' 
her partner. It weaved another link between them in ' 
their growing affection for each other, and Harold had 
a sort of involuntary feeling that he should like these 
congratulations to be applied to his engagement with 
her. Perhap? some day there would be a renewal of 
this scene if ever he was fortunate enough to win her. 
He was roused from these reflections by the. sudden 
anouncement being made that they must all adjourn 
in-doors for a dance. There were soon some twenty 
couples whirling around the old oak hall, and the Perry 
girls were more animated and gushing than ever. They 
were indefatigable in seeing that-every Jack had his 
Jill, and they would not dance a step themselves until 
they saw their friends properly coupled off. 

Kingston and Alice were sitting apart in a corner, 
looking sentimental and absorbed and taking no part 
in the dance, when the younger Perry girl came up to 
them and said, “ This is not ‘ puss in the corner,’ you 
know! Why are you not dancing? ” 

Alice blushed and stammered out an excuse that she 
was tired. 

“ Miss Maroni is tired, and I dislike dancing,” said 
Kingston, “ so we could think of nothing better than 
retiring to this extremely comfortable corner. Please 
do not turn us out.” 

“ You may stay here for this dance,” said Julia 
Perry, but after that it will be wanted by other 
couples. As you say, it is extremely comfortable, and 
I can’t allow you to monopolize it all the evening.” 
And with a smile full of meaning she went back to the 
dancers. 


A DAUGIITEIVS SACRIFICE. 


77 


vr- 


CHAPTER X. 

HEARTS ARE TRUMPS. 

, Kingston and Alice were perfectly lijyipy, and the 
former declared as soon as Miss Perry was out of liear- 
( ing that for his part he failed to understand people 
j who did not allow others to enjoy themselves in their 
own way. He had been openly telling Alice that he 
loved her. He knew that such an excellent oppor- 
tunity as the present one would probably never occur 
again during his stay in Cornwall, so he determined to 
make the most of it. And yet he scarcely knew liini- 
I self if the words he said were true. Of course he liked 
i Alice with the selfish, lazy liking that is born of easy 
^ conquest. He could see she cared for him and would 
be very willing to listen to his declaration. So it was 
quite as much out of good-nature and a certain feel- 
ing of gratitude as of anything else that he made it. 
He never thought of marriage ; he knew that he 
was too poor to indulge in such a luxury, and that 
I no parents of a girl who had money would look upon 
I him with favor. Still, it was pleasant to see the 
color mount to Alice’s cheek, and her eyes sparkle 
with delight as he told her unreservedly that he loved 
her. It was much the same kind of wooing that her 
mother had undergone twenty years ago at Cairo — a 
wooing which had ended in blighting her life. But 
Alice knew nothing of the world, she believed her 
lover’s pleadings to be true and genuine just as her 
mother had done before her. It all seemed strange and 


A PAt/GflTun^S SACntFICE. 


78 

wonderful to her brought up as she had been in such 
absolute seclusion and knowing only a mother’s and a ! 
brother’s love. There was no need for Geoffrey King- 
ston to feel any anxiety as to the result of his wooing. ‘ 
Alice’s hand trembled in his and her embarrassed i 
silence was sufficient to show him that lie had gained ! 
lier heart, and that she was his whenever he chose to 
claim her. Young Mr. Kingston could make love as ' 
well as any man — better than most Englishmen, whose | 
forte it is not altogether considered. He was tender, 
yet passionate and manly, and he heightened the effect 
of his love pleadings by an occasional note of despair 
which was brought in Avith much cleverness and tact. 

Alice sat there enraptured. She had never heard 
such beautiful language, for so she considered his easy 
fluency. It was very charming to be -told by this good- 
looking young man that he had never loved before, 
and that it had needed the sight of her sweet face to 
open his heart. She sat there drinking in his words 
with avidity, believing all he said, and, indeed, en- 
couraging him to every sort of exaggeration. An end 
must come to all things, however, and a final rout from 
the Misses Perry at length brought their tete-a-tete to 
an end. Alice was covered with confusion as she was 
asked to join the dancers, and Kingston rose with a 
sigh and leant up against the wall in an attitude of 
excessive boredom and despair. Harold was too much 
engaged on his own account to notice the flirtation in 
which his sister had been indulging. He was enjoying 
himself thoroughly and honestly, and had made him- 
self supremely happy by one or two dances with Marian 
Perry. His love-making was awkward and boyish and 
took the form of involved metaphors which were sup- 


A DAUOnTElVS SACmFICE. 


79 


posed to be very complimentary to the person to whom 
they were addressed. But, at any rate, he was sincere, 
and Marian, who had had much experience of London 
suitors, knew that he was so. Still, he was very young 
— not yet one-and-twenty — nor had he at present any 
profession, and she was perfectly well aware that her 
parents were as particular on this point as they were 
on the subject of birth. 

During a few moments’ pause that took place while 
they were together, Marian said to him : 

“ Why is your mother so unwilling to let Alice go to 
parties ? I can’t tell you what trouble we had to gain 
her consent to let your sister come to us to-day.” 

“ My mother thinks that Alice has plenty of time 
before her, I suppose,” he answered. “ Some day or 
other she will come out in London.” 

“ Have you any relations in London ? ” asked Miss 
; Perry. 

“ I don’t think we have relations anywhere,” he said 
smiling. “I think the few we ever had have died, 
with the single exception of my grandmother.” 

“ And she lives in London ? ” 

I “ Yes,” answered Harold, rather doubtfully. His 
I grandmother had always been associated with a certain 
i mystery in his mind and he felt incapable of enlarging 
I upon her existence. 

’ “ It seems so strange to have no relations,” said Miss 

Perry, who was not pumping him out of curiosity but 
from genuine interest which he had inspired. 

“ If ever I marry,” said Harold, getting very red at 
the mere possibility of such an event, “ I should be so 
much in love with — the person with whom I was in 
love — that I should not care the least bit whether she 


80 


A JOAirOFTTEn^S SACRTPTCK 


had any relations or not.” He meant this as magna- 
nimity on his part respecting the rum-selling antece- 
dents of Miss Perry’s parents. 

“You would have to be very much in love then,” 
said Marian, carefully studying her fan. 

“ I certainly cannot understand marriage without 
great — without overpowering — love. A man must love 
a woman as his very life to marry her.” 

“ You have evidently been reading the marriage 
service,” said Marian flippantly, “ I believe there are 
sentiments like that to be found in it.” 

“No, I assure you I have not,” he answered quite 
earnestly, “ they are my own sentiments inspired by 
the person who ” 

“ Yes ? Who ? ” 

“ Who I was going to say I feel I could love if ever 
I had any encouragement to do so.” 

“ You are getting quite beyond me,” said Miss 
Perry, with a nervous little laugh. “ Of course you 
must have encouragement before you can love.” 

“ I have had none as yet,” he answered rather dole- 
fully. 

“ Which evidently means that you do not yet love,” 
she said with provoking coyness. 

“ I do love — that is to say I could love if ” 

“ You are conjugating the wliole verb, Mr. Maroni,” 
she said in a pleased little tone, “ I should love, I could 
love, I do love — how many more tenses will you wander 
into?” 

“ I am afraid I am rather incoherent,” he admitted, 
“and I dare say you are only laughing at me.” 

“ No, I am not,” she answered, “ but I think we have 
said enough on the subject; let us talk of something 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


81 


else.” So Harold was cut short in the very midst of 
his rambling outbursts and he answered at random 
about people and things in whom he took not the 
slightest interest. 

Later on in the evening it began to dawn upon Mr. 
Maroni that he was acting as chaperon to his sister, 
and that it was some time since he had seen anything 
of her, so he made some inquiries of the other dancers, 
who were all in total ignorance of her wliereabouts. 
They had seen her in the tea-room about half-an-hour 
ago with Mr. Maroni’s friend, and that was all the 
information he could gather. Harold then began a 
search for her which was unsuccessful, and it was some 
considerable time after, when he had given his search 
up as fruitless, that his sister approached him with 
very flushed cheeks and asked him if it were not time 
to go. 

“ Where have you been, Alice ? ” he asked. “ I have 
been looking for you everywhere.” 

“ I have been wandering about the grounds,” Alice 
answered carelessly. “ I felt too tired to dance, and pre- 
ferred talking, and as Mr. Kingston was of my opinion, 
I have been spending the greater part of the evening 
with him.” 

Harold had too great a love and respect for his sister 
to even suggest that she had done wrong, and yet he 
had a vague idea that Alice’s explanation was not alto- 
gether satisfactory. He considered his mother and 
Alice absolutely faultless, and he would not for one 
moment have questioned anything that they did ; but 
still a young lady’s prolonged absence with a man is 
apt to strike the dullest comprehension as a little pe- 
culiar. 


6 


82 


A DAUGTITETVS SACTilFTCE. 


“ As you are tired we will go home,” he said, “ al- 
though for myself I should like to stay much longer, 
and no one seems inclined to go yet.” 

“ I am not tired now,” she answered, “ and I do not 
wish you to leave on my account. I am going to dance 
if any one will ask me. She was quite happy herself, 
and prepared to do anything to make her brother so. 

Geoffrey had told her that he loved her over and over 
again, and she had let him know that his love was recip- 
rocated. Vows of eternal constancy had been exchanged 
and these two had sworn never to belong to any one 
but each other. And they had certainly made the most 
of that hour during which they were absent from the 
dancers. 

Alice was in high spirits, and she infused much life 
into the final dances. Altogether it was a delightful 
day for them all, and they returned to “ The House” 
much pleased with the expedition. Mrs. Maroni was 
sitting up to receive them, and she appeared unusually 
excited and unlike herself. She was nervous and talked 
quickly, evidently anxious to hide her own thoughts or 
to distract them by hearing all about the party. 

Both Alice and Harold noticed this, and they could 
see that their mother had been crying. 

“ What is the matter, mother ? ” asked Harold. You 
don’t seem quite well.” 

“ I am all right,” she said nervously, “but I think I 
got frightened at sitting alone for so long — the house 
seemed so still, and I had a sort of panic of burglars.” 
And then they both kissed her and declared that it was 
very good of her to sit up, and that she should never be 
be left alone again. 

Mrs. Maroni turned away and brushed aside an in- 


A DAUGHTERS S SACRIFICE. 83 

voluntary tear which her children’s tenderness had in- 
voked, and then she collected herself and said as natural- 
ly as she could : 

By-the-bye, I have not been alone all day. I have 
had a visitor.” 

And then they were eager to know all particulars. 
The advent of a visitor at “ The House ” was such a 
very unusual event. 

“ It was a gentleman,” said Mrs. Maroni. “ A friend 
of your father’s whom I had not seen for years. Curi- 
ously enough, he is staying at Pencarvon, and I have 
asked him to dinner to-morrow, so you will be able to 
see him.” 

This was indeed news to them. A friend of their 
father ! It sounded delicious. They would hear some- 
thing about old tirpes now, and if once Mrs. Maroni 
broke through the ice by receiving a man to dinner, 
other festivities might perhaps follow. And then Mrs. 
Maroni turned to Geoffrey Kingston and said she hoped 
he had enjoyed himself. That astute young gentleman 
had been watching his hostess narrowly during all the 
time she had been speaking of her visitor, and he had 
gathered that the visit was not an altogether pleasant 
one. 

“ I have enjoyed myself immensely,” he said, with a 
not altogether pleasant smile. “ I love lawn-tennis, and 
I love ” — and then he paused and looked at Alice — 
“ dancing.” 

“-Geoffrey has been horribly lazy all day,” said 
Harold ; “ we are never going to take him to another 
party.” 

“ Seriously speaking,” said Mr. Kingston, “ I believe 
you have had the best of it. Mi’s. Maroni. You have 

V 


84 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRTFICE. 


had no fatigue, and you have had a visitor to amuse 
you.” 

With this doubtful speech the little party broke up 
and retired to their respective rooms, Alice and Harold 
to dream of undying love and sincere affection and 
eternal honeymoons, and, indeed, every kind of future 
bliss that exists in lovers’ imagination, and Mrs. Maroni 
to lie awake all night racked with the torment of ap* 
proaching chantage. 


A LAUGUTEIV ti SACRIFICE. 


85 


CHAPTER XL 

BLACK-MAIL. 

It may now, perhaps, be best to briefly state wbat 
had happened at “ The House ” during the young 
; people’s absence. Events bad taken place which would 
certainly account for Mrs. Maroni’s unsettled state of 
mind. As soon as she had seen them off, Mrs. Maroni 
went indoors and gave herself up to a quiet afternoon’s 
I reading. It was her habit constantly to secure a fresh 
I supply of books from Paris, and, indeed, every form of 
I literature — English and French — was to be found in 
i her library. On this particular afternoon, however, it 
seemed impossible for her to fix her attention upon the 
book before her. Her mind kept wandering, first of all 
to past days — days that were altogether so different to 
I her present life — and then she became uneasy about 
I Harold and Alice. Suppose anything should happen 
to them. The mare might bolt and break their necks. 

( A feeling came over her which she could not control, 

1 and for which she was unable to account, that there 
' was “ trouble in the air,” and she had a vague presenti- 
' ment of approaching evil. She put down her book and 
j closed her eyes, hoping that perhaps sleep might come 
to her and that she would wake up in a healthier state 
j of mind. But sleep did not come, and as the afternoon 
I became cooler she determined to go out and endeavor 
to distract lier thoughts by a turn in the garden. As 
, she was leaving the rooni the servant entered an4 


86 


A D AUG nr EE'S SACRIFICE. 


handed her Captain Malloret’s card. She glanced at it 
with dazed bewilderment, and then, when she had suf- 
ficiently become mistress of herself, she inquired if the 
servant had told the gentleman that she was at home. 
He replied in the affirmative, and then she hesitated 
and scarcely knew what to say. She felt inclined to 
refuse Malloret admittance, and so let him see, once 
for all, that she would not be persecuted by him, and 
that there was nothing to be hoped for from her ; but 
this feeling lasted but for a minute. She was perfectly 
well aware that she was dealing with a desperate man, 
and she dared not defy him. Eventually her fears got 
the better of her, and she told the servant to show him 
in. After all, it would be as well to see him and send 
him away at once. She would tell him, in no undecided 
terms, that as long as he remained at Pencarvon, he 
should never receive a penny from her, but that if he 
went away she might perhaps grant him the loan he 
desired, or, at any rate, a portion of it. 

In the midst of these thoughts the door opened and 
Malloret entered. He came forward to her with an 
amused smile on his face, and said : 

“ You didn’t think we should meet so soon when 
last we parted.” 

“ I had hoped not,” she said coldly. 

“ What a very ungracious welcome ! ” he laughed, 
“ and what a charming place you have here. Do you 
know, that although I have travelled all over the 
world, this is my first visit to Cornwall.” 

“ I hope it will be. your last,” she said still stand- 
ing in the middle of the room, and not asking him to 
take a seat. 

“ Well, I am not so sure. I found the country 


A DAUGiirmr s sacrifice. 


87 


charming, so picturesque, and all that sort of thing. 
The coast, too, is so rugged, and unlike the conven- 
tional cliffs that one sees in the south of England. 
The people are rather boorish, and their patois is quite 
beyond me at present, but I daresay I shall get accus- 
tomed to it in time.” 

“ Are 5'OU going to stay here long ? ” she asked. 
“ Why did you come?” 

“ I will answer your questions categorically. It is 
my intention to stay just as long as I find the place does 
not bore me ; and I came partly to explore an unknown 
country, and partly to have the pleasure of seeing 
you.” 

“ How did you find out where I live ? ” 

“ By the merest accident — one of those delightful 
trifles which are sufficient sometimes to change a man’s 
whole life.” 

“ That is no answer to my question. Wlio told you 
I lived at Pencarvon ? ” 

“ No one told me ; I found it out for myself.” 

“ You watched me and followed me I suppose. 
Have you added the profession of detective to your 
other accomplishments ? ” 

He laughed again. “No. I am afraid I should 
make a very bad one. I am too lazy and indifferent. 
I am sure I could not discover a clue, and certainly 
not follow it up if my life depended upon it.” 

“ It is a pity you are not too lazy to undertake such 
a long journey,” she said, “ especially as it must be an 
utterly fruitless one so far as I am concerned.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” he asked. 

“ I am not going into particulars, but I may as well 
tell you at once that if you came here to renew your 


88 


A DAUGHTEIVS SAClilFICE. 


demand for two hundred pounds, your errand will not 
be successful.’’ 

“ Not successful ? ” 

“ I will not give you a shilling while you remain in 
this neighborhood.” 

“ Thanks. You are very kind, but at present I have 
no intention of borrowing a shilling from you,” he said 
flippantly. “ About the other sum we can talk pres- 
ently. Won’t you give me something to drink ? Some 
tea — or some claret-cup I should prefer — if you have 
any. I must say you are, without exception, the most 
inhospitable person I ever met. I suppose you don’t 
grudge food to your friends ? ” 

She made no answer, and he seated himself in the 
most comfortable chair he could find in the room, and 
then he turned round and said : 

‘‘Shall I ring?” 

“ What for? ” asked Mrs. Maroni. 

“ For that drink that I am longing for. I am sure 
that you have some ice in the house, and that your ex- 
cellent butler will be able to concoct me something 
cool and refreshing.” 

Mrs. Maroni was furious. Evidently Captain Mal- 
loret was not to be lightly dealt with. Indeed it would 
be useless to attempt to defy him in his present mood. 
Clearly she must allow him to remain, and have a seri- 
ous conversation with him. It was too terrible to think 
that he held her life’s happiness and that of her chil- 
dren literally in the palm of his hand, and that he had 
it in his power to blast them at any moment. It was 
a mercy that she had been alone when he arrived. 
Now she hoped that if she was firm she might induce 


A DAUGHTEB'S SACIilFICE. 


89 


him to leave before they came back, and that they need 
never know of his visit. 

“ You may ring,” she said more amiably. “ I dare 
say they will get you something.” 

“ Ah ! that’s more like your own sweet self,” he said. 
“We can carouse together, as in the good old Cairo 
days.” 

“ I am not in a carousing humor,” said Mrs. Maroni 
curtly. “I was just going to have my tea.” 

“ Your five o’clock tea, I suppose. Will you believe 
that in Clan William Terrace they dine in the middle 
of the day sometimes, and then have what they call a 
‘ meat tea ’ at about seven. Can you see me enjoying 
a ‘ meat tea ’ with a Bayswater widow ? ” 

“ I pity your Bayswater widow,” she said. 

“ Because I owe her a little money ? Then you 
should have lent me what I asked you for in London, 
and I would have paid her.” 

“ I have nothing to do with your bills,” she began, 
and then the servant • came in and she could not con- 
clude her remark. 

Malloret took up the novel she had been reading, 
and said ; 

“ ‘ Une Lune de Miel a Monte Carlo,’ by Adolphe Be- 
lot. That is where you spent your honeymoon, was it 
not, or at least one of them.” 

“ I never had a honeymoon,” she answered shortly. 

“No? How curious. Ah! I am forgetting the 
commonest usages of society all this time ; 1 have never 
asked after your children. How are they ? ” 

“ They are quite well.” 

“ I hope I shall see them.” 

“ They are spending the day with some friends some 


90 A DAUGIITEB'S SACBIFICK 

distance from here. I am very glad that it happened 
to be the day on which you called.” 

“ Why should I not see them ? I am really quite 
anxious to make their acquaintance.” 

“ And I am equally anxious that you should not do 
so.” 

“ You are dreadfully impolite, and you decidedly 
take the advantage of my good temper. And what 
shocking stories you told me in London. You said 
that you knew none of your neighbors, and that you 
never went into society, and now I find that your son 
and daughter have gone to one of the largest parties of 
the year, given by the Perrys — gin distillers, are not 
they?” 

“ Who told you ? ” 

“ My landlord. He knows everything that goes on 
here. He’s a most invaluable old gossip.” 

“I told you I went into no society, and I told you 
the truth. You see I have stayed at home.” 

“Then you really have given. up ‘the world, the 
flesh and the devil.’ ” 

“ I have given up the two former. The last I am 
afraid is in the room at the present moment.” 

Malloret looked round as if seeking for his Satanic 
Majesty, and then said laughingly ; 

“You can’t mean me? I have got no cloven foot.” 

“ I am in no humor for jesting,” she said im- 
patiently. “ You must tell me what it is you want, 
and then you must go.” 

“ You are quite right to be frank,” he said, “and, as 
you say, we are only wasting our time in playful 
badinage. After all, there is nothing like coming to 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 91 

the point. I want you to lend me two hundred pounds. 
Now that’s clear enough, is it not? 

“ It is remarkably clear, but you seem to forget that 
I have already refused to lend it to you.” 

“No, I do not. But 1 am not one of those peo- 
ple who are accustomed to take no for an answer, 
when they prefer an answer in the affirmative. 
Besides, you were in London when you refused my 
request. I thought that perhaps you might be more 
amiable here.” 

“ Why should I be ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. If you can’t guess, it is sca^’cely 
worth my while to tell you. What I thought was that 
one good turn deserved another.” 

“ And what good turn have I ever received from 
you ? ” 

“None — as yet. But if I hold my tongue, you 
might be grateful to me.” 

“ In plain English, it is black-mail you require.” 

“ Black-mail is rather an ugly word.” 

“ Ugly deeds require ugly names.” 

“ Well, we will- not arguef about the name. Will 
you lend it to me ? ” 

“ No, I will not. I have already refused you, and I 
have no reason to give you money which I know you 
can never return. With regard to your threat, I can- 
not seriously entertain it. I knew you years ago as a 
gentleman. ^You bore a good name, and you have 
held a commission in the Queen’s service. It is im- 
possible for me to believe that you have suddenly be- 
come so low a blackguard as to threaten a woman, and 
extort money from her on the strength of knowing her 
miserable antecedents. Be a man. Captain MaUoret, 


92 


A DAUGIIT^H^S SACJilFIOU. 


and think of your honor and self-respect. It would be 
better for you to sweep a crossing than to expect 
money from me.” 

“ Your moralizing is delightful, but your arguments 
will not hold water. If the source of your money is 
impure, and you are disposed to sermonize, you should 
have no objection to parting with it. We will talk no 
more about a loan. Give it to me as a charity.” 

“ I can see you are hopeless,” she said “ and it is 
useless to waste words upon you.” Then suddenly, 
“ If I gave you this money, what guarantee should I 
have that your demands would cease ? None what- 
ever. On the contrary, you would become more im- 
portunate, and I should never have a moment’s peace. 
It is better that you should know once for all that there 
is nothing to be hoped for from me.” 

“ If you give me this two hundred pounds, I will 
give you my solemn word of honor ” 

“ That would be even less valuable than an I O U, 
or the bill you spoke of the other day,” she interrupted. 
“ The honor of a man who can threaten a woman with 
exposure is very doubtful^ecurity.” 

“ I have given you the right to say so by my hast}^ 
words just now,” he said in a conciliatory voice, but I 
would swear by everything I hold most sacred that I 
would never trouble you again if you gave me this 
money.” 

“ But do you hold anything sacred ? ” 

He hesitated and tried to think of some binding 
oath that would convince her, but in his bad, worth- 
less existence he could think of nothing for which he 
cared sufficiently to render such a promise safe. 

“ No, no,” she persisted. “ I should be a fool to give 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


93 


you the two hundred pounds. I should never be free 
of you if once you thought you could extort money 
from me.” 

“ As you like,” he said rather impatiently. “ You 
have everything to gain by granting my request, but 
if it is to be war to the knife, it must be so. I think 
you will regret it more than I shall.” 


94 


A DAUGriTEIVS SACRrFICi:. 


CHAPTER XII. 

MALLORET PERSISTENT. 

Mrs. Maroni awoke the next morning with a dread 
recollection of the hateful interview which she had 
undergone upon the previous day. It was maddening 
to think that this man, who had no sort of hold upon 
her, to whom she was not indebted for anything in the 
world, and with whom she had not been mixed up in 
any kind of way, should nevertheless have it in his 
power to wreck hers and her children’s happiness. 
There was much to be considered before she saw him 
again. She must try and bind him down to some com- 
pact by which she should be free of him in the future, 
but she felt the difficulty of this and indeed of the 
hopelessness of ever getting out of the rascal’s grasp. 

All the morning she remained in her room, racking 
her brains in the vain endeavor to think of some plan 
wliich would free her from Captain Malloret and his 
diabolical schemes. A promise, however sacred, would 
be only so many empty words in the mouth of a man 
who could take advantage of her position and threaten 
her as he had done. There was obviously but one 
path open to her, and that was flight ; her home must 
be broken up, and the years she had spent in self-sacrific- 
ing seclusion, must count as nothing. It was very 
hard, and yet, in ail her trouble she recognized a kind 
of grim justice and relentless reward for the life she 
had once led. She began to think how difficult it 


A DAUGfITIJR’S SACRFFrCR. 95 

would be to find a spot where Captain Malloret would 
not, sooner or later, succeed in hunting her down, and 
now that he could become acquainted with her mode 
of life and surroundings, and could ascertain that 
Harold was at Cambridge, it would always be an easy 
matter for him to find clues as to her whereabouts. 
She sat down and wrote a long letter to de Tesles, 
telling him exactly what had taken place, and asking 
for his advice. She had considerable confidence in his 
judgment, for she knew him to be a clever man of the 
world, and she trusted that he might be able to discover 
some way out of her dif^icult3^ After she had sent off 
the letter, she felt a certain sense of relief, and went 
downstairs and joined the young people. Fortunately 
they were too much occupied in discussing the events 
of the party of the day before, to ask her any further 
questions concerning the visitor she had received, and 
she found a welcome distraction in listening to their 
descriptions of the various people they had met at the 
Perrys’. 

During a portion of the morning Harold had been 
out and Kingston and Alice had enjoyed the delightful 
tete-a-tete in which they had repeated their vows of the 
previous day. And Alice wishes to know if she might 
tell her mother of his proposal, or if he would prefer 
to do so himself ; but the young man strongly objected 
to any mention being made of it. He must announce 
it to his own family first, he said, and see what they 
would do for him. ‘ In his present position he was 
totally unable to marry, but he would promise to be 
true to her, if — and on this score he did not doubt her 
for a single instant — she would onl}^ be true to him. 
He must return to Cambridge for his last term, and 


96 


A BAUGIITETV S SACBIFICE. 


then, when he had consulted with his relations, Alice 
would be free to announce her engagement. 

Alice was not unnaturally disappointed, and her face 
showed that she was so plainly enough, but a kiss 
from her lover soon dispelled the feeling, and, like all 
girls of her age, she had implicit faith in her first love. 
She was so proud of him, so proud of herself for hav- 
ing won the love of a man who appeared indifferent to 
everything and everybody. She would have liked to 
proclaim her triumph from the house-tops, but after 
what Kingston had explained to her, she realized that 
this was impossible, and sweetly assented to his pro- 
posed plan. 

And then her mother came down, and the delightful 
interview was cut short. 

Kingston was more than ever interested in Mrs. 
Maroni. His early suspicions of everything not being 
quite right in her past life had received striking con- 
firmation from her troubled appearance of the evening 
before, and the young man was looking forward to the 
presence of a visitor at dinner to gather something a 
little more definite concerning her. 

Mrs. Maroni, however, was much more composed this 
morning. She had wonderful self-control, and she ap- 
peared to take a lively interest in the conversation 
respecting the lawn-tennis party. Nevertheless, she 
was still thinking of the dreadful ordeal that awaited 
her. Her mind having this new trouble to dwell upon, 
she forgot, for the time being, her dislike to Mr. King- 
ston’s presence, and the fact that he was unduly flirting 
with her daughter. For a moment she had thought 
vaguely of throwing herself upon his mercy and ex- 
plaining to him her cruel position, and asking him for 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 97 

his assistance to enable her to deal with Captain MaL 
loret. She needed the help of a man, and he was evi- 
dently no ordinary young man, but one who could 
easily enter into the difficulties of the situation. He 
had often spoken seriously and cleverly to her, and had 
a knowledge of the world considerably in advance of 
his age, but she revolted at the idea of having to con- 
fess to him that she had never been married, and she 
also had a shrewd notion that his interference would 
only make Malloret more desperate and revengeful. 
All day long she was attempting to think of some solu- 
tion of the difficulty, but was unable to find any. As 
soon as an idea struck her, she dismissed it as imprac- 
ticable, and when Malloret arrived she had come to no 
definite decision. 

They were still in the drawing-room when he was 
announced, and Mrs. Maroni went forward to greet him 
with a forced smile of welcome. Malloret was posi- 
tively beaming, and endeavored to make himself as 
amusing and agreeable as possible. The young Maronis 
thought him delightful ; he had so much to say for him- 
self, and he said it so funnily ; but Kingston looked be- 
neath the surface, and put him down at once as an 
adventurer. The occasional glances of distrust and 
desire for approbation, which he directed to Mrs. 
Maroni, were not lost upon Kingston, and he admired 
the sang froid and apparent indifference with whicli 
that lady received them. Malloret told them his regi- 
mental stories, properly diluted, for the benefit of a 
family party, and indeed did his utmost to make them 
laugh and put them in a good humor. 

Presently Kingston looked at him and said : 


98 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“ You must have left the army very young. Did you 
get tired of it ? ” 

“Yes, I did,” said Malloret, who was not altogether 
so pleased. “ Being a soldier is very much like being 
at school, and when I arrived at the age of thirty, I 
felt that I had had enough of it. I love my Queen 
and country as much as any man, and I would do any- 
thing I could to serve them, but really, having to get up 
at monstrous hours when you would much rather be in 
bed, and having to ask for permission every time you 
want a ‘ day out,’ is very like school, with the colonel 
for head master and the other field officers as ushers.” 

This speech was certainly not a happy one. No one 
seemed to like it, and Malloret, seeing the effect it had 
produced, instantly directed attention from himself 
by asking Harold what profession he had decided to 
adopt. 

Harold declared that at present his taste seemed to 
lay in the direction of the law, and that he intended to 
be called to the Bar as soon as possible after he had 
left the university. 

“ The worst of being a barrister is that you have to 
tell so many lies,” said Malloret. And he again turned 
his glance in the direction of Mrs. Maroni. 

“ Then I am sure Harold would not succeed,” said 
Alice ; “ he is truth personified.” 

“ I hope we all are,” said Malloret boldly ; but of 
course there are so many fibs that are absolute neces- 
sities, that, after all, I suppose it does not much matter 
whether one tells them in a professional way or merely 
in every-day social intercourse.” 

“ Harold’s profession is quite undecided,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “ He has occasionally thought of the Indian 


A BAUGHTEB'^S SACRIFICE, 


99 


Civil Service.” And the idea occurred to her that it 
would perhaps be a mercy if he went to a far-off coun- 
try where he would, anyhow, be safely out of the way 
of Malloret’s slanderous tongue. 

“ It is a very difficult examination to get through,” 
said Malloret, “ But I dare say that your son is clever 
enough to pass it — especially if he inherits any of your 
marvellous talents.” 

Mrs. Maroni frowned. 

‘‘We have lived so long out of the world,” she said 
coldly, “ that we are quite unaccustomed to compli- 
ments ; frankly speaking, we do not like them.” 

Malloret felt snubbed, and retorted by saying : 

“You surely can’t forget all the compliments you 
have received, even if you have lived in a ‘ Palace of 
Truth ’ for the last ten years.” 

“ They are very easily forgotten,” said Mrs. Maroni, 
and then the conversation took another turn. 


100 


A DAUGITTBB'S SACRIFICE;, 


CHAPTER XIIL 

MRS. MARONI CAPITULATES. 

After dinner Mrs. Maroni said she would show 
Captain Malloret round the grounds while the young 
people repaired to their eternal lawn-tennis. Kingston 
felt rather in the way. He knew he was not wanted in 
the tete-a-tete which Mrs. Maroni sought, and so he 
said he had letters to write and would go to his room. 

“ There is not much to show you,” said Mrs. Maroni 
to Malloret, “ and this is not a show place, but you 
must see my prize bantams and my highly-bred pigs.” 

So they started off together, and, as soon as they 
were out of hearing, Malloret said : 

“Fancy your winding up your brilliant career with 
prize bantams and over-fed pigs ! I must say that the 
idea is as amusing as it is astonishing.” 

“ It is unusual, is it not ? ” slie said. “ I suppose 
you think I ought to have died in the gutter, or ended 
my days at a roulette table at Monte Carlo ! ” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” he said piously. “ But I had no 
idea that you could take any interest in animals. I 
should have tliought you were too clever.” 

“ I suppose it is nfter a life study of human beings 
and beasts that I have come to the conclusion that I 
prefer the latter,” she said. “ A pig is certainly less 
spiteful and unprincipled than a man.” 

“ These delightful epithets are meant for me, I pre- 
sume.” 


A BAUGIITEIVS SACRIFICE. 


101 


“ They are, and I am glad that you recognize the de- 
scription ; but at the same time I know you now suffi- 
ciently well to be perfectly aware that they can have 
no effect upon you.” 

And then she turned suddenly to him and said : 

“ What guarantee am I to receive that if I give you 
this money you will not renew your importunities?” 

“ I am afraid my word is not sufficient.” 

“No, it is not,V she answered briefly. 

“Then I scarcely see Vhat else I can do to restore 
your confidence. I can only pledge my honor — every- 
thing else I ever possessed is pledged long ago.” 

“You must sign a paper,” she said, “acknowledging 
the sum you have received and undertaking never to 
molest me again.” 

“ I might sign fifty papers, and I will if you like, but 
none of them would be of the slightest value. After 
all, I can assure you, you have a most mistaken view of 
my character. I am not a villain in a transpontine play. 
You told me yourself last night that I was a gentleman. 
I only asked for this money as a loan, and it was your 
obstinacy which made me say the rude things I did. 
Two hundred pounds will quite put me on my legs, and 
I shall be able to turn round and look about for some- 
thing to do. You can’t seriously suppose that I am 
going to exist all my life on black-mailing a woman, can 
you?” 

His words were reassuring. Ah, if she could only 
believe them ! Perhaps he was genuine; she tried to 
tliink that it was so, and to make herself believe that, 
after all, she had mistaken his character and exaggerated 
her own trouble. Anyhow, his speech certainly relieved 
her mind, and she spoke more kindly to him, making a 


102 


A BAUGUTEE'S SACEIFICE, 


final appeal to any good feeling that he might still 
possess. 

“ I hope you are speaking the truth,” she said, “ and 
I am willing to believe you. Of course, when a man is 
very hard up he often says and does things which he 
probably regrets afterwards. If this money can be of 
any service to you, I shall be very glad, and I give it to 
you willingly, without any idea of ever seeing it again. 
I was perhaps silly to make such a fuss about it, and 
you must forgive me the unkind things I have said to 
you. After all, it is a miserable kind of philosophy to 
have no faith in any one. But I have scarcely ever 
seen anything but the dark side of the world, and I am 
therefore apt to judge too hastily and harshly. We 
will say no more disagreeable things to each other, and 
when you leave here I will wish you good luck and a 
brighter future.” 

Her manner was altogether kind and genuine, and it 
had a certain effect upon Malloret. He had never 
thought of persecuting her perpetually. He lived from 
day to day, and was not in the habit of considering the 
future. It was enough for him that Mrs. Maroni would 
give him the money he wanted, and he was pleased at 
the gracious way in which she did it. 

“You have made a very diplomatic speech,” he said, 
“ and, unlike most diplomatic speeches, there is heart 
and kindness in it. I am glad you don’t look upon me 
as an utter ruffian, and I am awfully obliged to you for 
the service you are rendering me. I hope some day I 
shall be able to repay you — I can’t say more.” 

So Mrs. Maroni was content, and proceeded to show 
him the pigs and the poultry in a much happier frame 
of mind than she had anticipated. It was so comforting. 


A DAUGJITEU'S SACRIFICE. 


103 


after a period of mental torture, to be able to lull ber* 
self into a feeling of security. Malloret might not have 
been touched at her speech, and he might still plot to 
work her ruin, but she would not look on that dark side. 
She would believe what he had said and enjoy the com- 
fort of his words. She told him that he should have the 
money the next day, and that he might come and fetch 
it in the afternoon ; and then he expressed more grati- 
tude, and she did not interrupt him as she had done on 
the previous evening, but, on the contrary, she drank in 
his words with eager thankfulness. Then they talked on 
indifferent subjects, and Malloret admired all she had 
to show him. 

“ How happy I could be in the country,” he declared, 
with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Far away from 
duns, and friends who cut one, and Mrs. Potter, my 
landlady.” 

“ There is nothing like it, I can assure you,” she said. 
“ After a stormy life, the repose of the country is the only 
thing that can cure one, body and mind.” 

“ And do you never get tired of it? ” 

“ Never. My only sorrow is when I have to leave to 
go to London.” 

“ How curious it is that de Tesles should still care to 
see you,” he said, “ and yet have no desire to see his 
children.” 

“ It would be curious in an Englishman,” she answer- 
ed carelessly, “ but la voix du sang speaks very rarely 
in a Frenchman. They are kinder to women than our 
countrymen, I think. You rarely hear of a Frenchman 
kicking his wife to death — which is a daily occurrence 
in some of our counties — but their paternal feelings are 
very badly developed.” 


104 A DAWnmE^S SACRIFICE. 

“ And he has never wished to see them ? ” 

He never says much about them ; not that I ever 
encourage him to do so. I would mucli rather tliat 
they should believe their father to be dead and think of 
me as their only parent.” 

“ And do they never ask embarrassing questions ? ” 

“ Not now. They often used to do so when they were 
children, but I put it down so strongly then that they 
have long since given it up altogether.” 

“ They are charming,” he said, still under the influ- 
ence of his good humor ; “ good-looking and well 
brought up.” 

“ I have taken great pains with their education,” she 
answered, proudly. 

“ Harold ‘is like you,” he said, “but your daughter 
is more like her father.” 

“Yes. The likeness is very striking.” 

And then he asked her about Kingston, and wanted 
to know if he was not an acknowledged suitor of Alice’s. 
But Mrs. Maroni hastily undeceived hin, and explained 
the circumstances under which he was there. 

“ I hope you don’t think there is anything serious 
between them,” she added. 

“ No,” he said. “It was only a stray shot, but they 
are very likely to fall in love with each other, having 
nothing else to do.” 

“You are right,” said Mrs. Maroni uneasily. “I 
must tell Harold to get rid of him ; he has been here 
quite long enough.” 

After this they strolled towards the house, and the 
remainder of the evening was spent in the drawing- 
room, where Alice played and sang to them. Malloret 
seated himself close to the piano and paid much atten- 


A DAlTGirmii’S SACRIFICE. 


105 


tion to the fair young musician, whilst Kingston de- 
voted himself to Mrs. Maroiii. He was surprised to see 
her in such good spirits, and marvelled inwardly at the 
sudden change. She felt grateful to him for having 
had the tact to absent himself when she wanted to be 
alone with Malloret, so she put forth all her powers to 
please him, and the evening passed very pleasantly in- 
deed. And when eleven o’clock struck, Malloret said 
he must go home. Early hours were indispensable in 
the country and he meant to try their effect. Harold 
then said that he would walk with him to his inn, and 
the party broke up. 

Mrs. Maroni was a little uneasy at seeing them go 
off together. Slie had still that horrible feeling that 
Malloret might say something to her son on the way- 
which would arouse liis suspicions. It was dreadful to 
be under the spell of these ghastly fears. Life was not 
worth having under such circumstances, and she passed 
a miserable half hour until Harold returned. But 
the sight of liis smiling, handsome face soon reas- 
sured her and she retired to her room a far happier 
woman than she had been the night before. 


106 


A DAironTER'S SACRIFia]^. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HAROLD’S SUCCESS. 

The next day brought quite a little excitement in 
the hitherto peaceful Maroni household. Three invita- 
tions arrived at the same time — one to dine at the 
Perrys’, and two others to afternoon entertainments. 
This state of things was easily to be accounted for by 
the unusual sight of the Maronis at any sort of party. 
Then, too, men were at a great premium in that neigh- 
borhood, and any family which could produce two such 
young and good-looking specimens as Harold Maroni 
and Geoffrey Kingston, was bound to be eagerly wel- 
comed. So the invitations were sent forth, and they 
certainly caused Mrs. Maroni a certain amount of an- 
noyance. She did not wish her children to be drawn 
into society, and she felt that it was provoking that 
people should gather from their one appearance at the 
Perrys’ that they were ready to go anywhere. More- 
over, it entailed disappointment to them and caused 
unpleasant explanations as to her reasons for refusing. 
The dinner, she at once determined to decline, and as 
for the afternoon parties, they could be accepted in the 
first instance, and then she would trust to the uncer- 
tainty of the climate to produce a providential wet day 
when they took place. As she herself was included 
in the Perrys’ invitation, she had no difficulty in refus- 
ing. She never went anywhere, and that in itself was 
sufficient excuse. Harold and Alice were disappointed, 


A DAirGnTETt" S SACRIFICE. 


107 


and the former, at any rate, was woefully glum for a 
time, but recovered his spirits when he received a note 
later on, from Mrs Perry begging that he, at least, would 
come and dine with them on the day they had named. 
To this Mrs. Maroni could have no possible objection, 
so her son gladly wrote back and accepted. 

Harold Maroni cherished many pleasant memories of 
the day he had spent at the Perrys,’ and he was long- 
ing to see Marian again. They had touched upon 
poetry in the course of their conversation, and after 
the manner of most young people whose affections 
are in the budding stage. Of course they both liked 
poetry. Miss Perry worshipped Tennyson and Harold 
raved about Byron, and then-he had told her that he had 
just got Browning’s new poem, that he would bring it 
her to read if she cared for it, adding, naturally, that 
he would like to read it with her. Of course Miss 
Perry said that she should be delighted, and he there- 
fore had this prospective treat in view as well as 
the dinner party. His love, which he had scarcely 
dared to call by that name even to himself, was 
entirely different to that experienced by Kingston 
for Alice. Harold had none of the selfish, mercenary 
thoughts that actuated his friend. He had conceived 
■ a strong liking for the girl, which only required a little 
encouragement to become a lifMong love. He deter- 
mined to take her the book that very day, and made a 
•rambling kind of excuse to Kingston for leaving him 
alone, which the latter easily saw through, and which 
he readily accepted. Indeed, he was delighted at the 
turn events had taken, as he anticipated that, owing to 
her brother’s absence, he would be able to pass a con- 
siderable time alone with Alice. Her mother would 


108 A DAiTGiiTUR's sacrific:e:. 

probably be still mucli occupied in meditating over the 
Malloret episode, and they would necessarily.be left in 
a great measure to their own devices. 

Harold started off in good spirits, and was fortunate 
enough to meet the two Perry girls on his way to their 
house. They both liked him, and they were pleased 
to see his handsome, smiling face coming towards them. 
Julia felt that she was de trop, but there was no help 
for it, and they would have to put up with her, at any 
rate, for the moment. Her sister had told her how 
charming she considered Mr. Maroni, and had half 
confided in Julia that lie appeared to entertain the 
same opinion with regard to herself. It was a pity he 
was so young, Marian said^ — oiily ^ year older than her- 
self. Julia had replied that she thought that this was 
a good thing ; disparity in age as regards husband and 
wife generally ended badl}", and for her part she was 
convinced that the nearer the ages of married people 
approached each other, the less likely was their mar- 
riage to prove a failure. 

Harold was riding, and the sisters were on foot, so the 
conversation at first was somewhat difficult; but after a 
few minutes he dismounted, and led his horse, and they 
all three walked to the house together. The Perrys were 
very hospitable people and immediately insisted on his 
j-emaining to luncheon, andwhen that meal was over, the 
three young people adjourned to the garden, and Julia 
discreetly took a wrong turning in the shrubbery, and so 
was conveniently lost to view. Then the book of poems 
was produced from young Maroni’s pocket, and he 
proceeded to read out the passages which had struck him 
as being the most beautiful and original. And Marian 
admired them with the same enthusiasm which he 


A BAUGIITFR^S SACRIFICK 109 

exhibited but before long they both found that their own 
prose wJis more interesting to them than Browning’s 
poetry. And so the book was closed, and Harold com- 
menced to tell the oft-told tale. Not indeed in the brief 
way in which it has here been described. He required 
much beating about the bush, and w’as guilty of many 
involved phrases, and, so far from being eloquent, his 
language was halting, and he stammered almost pain- 
fully. But, after all, what did it matter? Marian 
gathered that she was loved, and the knowledge made 
her happy. Her lover was certainly not a fortune 
hunter; he was altogether too young and inexperienced 
to be suspected of any such intention, and he was so 
different from all the men she had known in London. 
They all seemed made of the same pattern there, their 
clothes all cut the same way, their hair parted in exactly 
the same style, and their hlasS boredom precisely similar. 
Harold had nothing of the London gommeux ^hovAhim. 
He was not faultless, to be sure. Truth to tell, he was 
a trifle rustic, but, anyhow, that was better than being 
languid and unmanly. So Miss Periy lent a kindly 
ear to his blundering way of expressing his feelings, 
and later on, when he arrived at the culminating point, 
and told her in so many words that he loved her, and 
had done so from the first time he saw hei% she did not 
attempt to reprove him, but smiled in a manner that 
sent Harold at a bound to the seventh heaven. After 
this came the usual inquiry on his part, if Marian 
thought it possible that she could ever care for him a 
little bit, and the young lady, throwing off her reserve, 
said that she liked him very much. Evidently there 
were still higher heavens to be reached, thought Harold, 
as he heard her say these words. 


110 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


Then came the other side of the picture, the question 
as to what her parents would say when they learned 
that he loved her and had had the presumption to tell 
her so. The two young people both became dejected 
when they considered this important question. 

Marian told him that her parents both loved her very 
dearly, and had always spoilt her, and she feared they 
would object to his youth, and to the fact that he had 
no profession, and that even if they did ultimately give 
their consent, they would certainly insist upon a very 
long engagement. Neither of them feared this last 
condition ; they were both content to wait, safe in the 
assurance of each other’s affections, and Harold promised 
that he would adopt a profession with the least delay 
possible, and, having done so, work hard at it. 

His words were very boyish and reckless, but he was 
genuine and frank with her, and insisted on being 
allowed to make his offer in proper form to Marian’s 
parents. Miss Perry, however, begged that he would 
not do so immediately. They had seen so very little 
of each other, even though they had been near neigh- 
bors for the last ten years, and she was confident that 
her father would have to be led up to it gentl3^ Any- 
thing brusque or hasty might ruin their prospects for 
life. Harold must wait until after he had dined with 
them, and then he could either write to her father or 
speak to him. Harold said he would rather adopt the 
latter course ; he was a very bad hand at writing letters, 
and he thought that he could plead his cause much 
better in person. 

Then came more playful love-making, which ended 
with a prolonged kiss, and then Julia innocently 
emerged from behind a tree. 


A daugiiti:r’s SACRIFICK 111 

It was not until after he had gone that Marian, when 
dressing for dinner, confided to her sister that she had 
a great secret to tell her. 

“ You need not trouble yourself,” said Julia flip- 
pantly. “ I heard him kiss 3'ou.” 

“ Heard him ?” ejaculated Marian. “ Why, where 
were you ? ” 

“ I might have been a mile off, and I daresay I 
should have heard it all the same,” said her sister. 
“ As it happened, I was a few paces off, looking at 
you ; but the smack resounded right through the 
wood.” 

Then Marian had to tell her that he had proposed, 
and that she felt she loved him very much ; but not a 
word was to be said for the next few days, until she 
had thoroughly sounded her mother. 

“ I wish you every joy,” said Julia. “ He is cer- 
tainly very good-looking, and I should think had no 
nonsense in him.” 

“ He is an angel,” said Marian, with the ready gush 
of her age. 

“ Angel or not,” said her sister, “ he is a charming 
young fellow, and a delightful contrast to most of the 
men we have met in London. I only hope that I may 
be equally fortunate.” 

Then the sisters kissed each other and went down 
to the drawing-room. 


112 


A DAUGUTEB^S SACBIFICE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

CAPTAIN MALLOEET MAKES A FRESH PROPOSITION. 

When Harold returned home he found his mother 
alone in her boudoir. She told him that Captain Mal- 
loret had just called, and that he was walking about 
the garden with Kingston and Alice. Harold longed 
to tell her his news. There had always been such 
close sympathy between them that he felt sure she 
would share in his joy, and be warm in her congratu- 
lations ; but he remembered Marian’s injunctions, and 
so refrained. His mother asked him if he had had a 
pleasant day, and then he burst into a rapturous de- 
scription of the kindness of the Perrys, and their mani- 
fold charms and virtues ; and then, fearing that he 
might commit himself if he enlarged much more on 
this topic, he said he would go into the garden and look 
for the rest of the party. 

“ Send Captain Malloret to me,” said his mother 
nonchalantly. “He is going away to-morrow, and I 
have some commissions for him to do in London.” 

“ All right,” said Harold, and he went up and kissed 
her on the brow before leaving the room. 

Mrs. Maroni had not yet had an opportunity of 
giving Malloret the two hundred pounds, and she was 
anxious that he should have them, and that she should 
see the last of him. 

In a few minutes her visitor entered and said con- 
ventionally ; 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


113 


“ You have some commissions for me to do ? 

“ Yes ; there is the money to pay for them,” said Mrs. 
Maroiii sarcastically — “two hundred pounds.” And 
then, in another voice, “ Make haste and take it before 
any one comes in.” 

“ Thanks,” he said, coolly pocketing the money ; 
“ you have rendered me an immense service.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, for 1 am afraid, as I told you 
yesterday, it would be the last one I should be able to 
render you.” 

“ You don’t speak as kindly as you did yesterday,” 
said Malloret, with rather a hard manner. 

“Perhaps I don’t feel the same. Women vary, you 
know. However, I hope you will give me no further 
occasion for reproaches. I trust I shall never see you 
after to-day.” 

“ You are getting more impolite every minute,” he 
said, with a disagreeable smile, “ and I have no doubt 
that you will be surprised to hear that I have just 
been struck by an idea, which, however, I fear is not 
at all in accordance with your wish. Would you like 
to hear it ? ” 

“ I suppose it is something fiendish.” 

“ Fiendish ? ” 

“ I don’t expect much else from you.” 

“ It is not fiendish. On the contrary, it would be an 
act of self-sacrifice on my part, and be the means of 
assuring your security — from me, at any rate — for the 
rest of your life.” 

“ Well, let me hear it,” she said, interested in spite 
of herself. 

Then he paused a few seconds, and, looking her 
straight in the face, said : 


114 


A DAUGHTI^R’S SACBIFICE. 


“ Why should I not marry your daughter ? ” 

Mrs. Maroni started. The proposition was so unex- 
pected, so monstrous, that for the moment she felt 
speechless and unable to collect her thoughts. And 
then she controlled herself, and said in a calm voice : 

“ Your idea is a very humorous one. Of course you 
intend it for a joke ? ” 

“ Not at all. It seems to me a way out of our diffi- 
culties, and one which would insure happiness to us 
all.” 

“ Do you think it would ensure Alice’s happiness ? ” 
asked Mrs. Maroni. 

“ I see no reason why it should not. I daresay I 
should make her as good a husband as any other man. 
Her fortune would extricate me from my miserable 
position, and rich people are always good and virtuous. 
It would save you any explanation as to her family, 
and you will be perfectly secure against exposure. 
You may be sure I should never blow upon my own 
mother-in-law.” 

“ I Avas not wrong, after all, when I said that your 
idea was a fiendish one,” she said, rising and pointing 
to the door. “ I decline to entertain it for a moment. 
Leave the house, and never let me see you again.” 

But Malloret was not to be so easily dismissed. He 
remained immovable, and said in cold, cutting tones, 
“ You are very heroic, not to say melodramatic. You 
seem to forget that it is not every one who would care 
to marry your daughter.” 

I “ would rather see her in her grave, than your 
wife,” retorted Mrs. Maroni. 

“ I fail to see the objection,” he said, still keeping 
up his cold tone. “ It may be an excess of conceit on 


A BAUGHTEB^ S SACRIFICE, 


115 


my part, but T am really not bad-looking ; I come of a 
good family, and the money I lack she possesses. To 
my mind, it would be a most desirable match.” 

“And do you think she would ever consent?” said 
Mrs. Maroni scornfully. 

“ If she were properly talked to she might do so. I 
suppose you possess a certain amount of influence over 
; her, and that she would listen to your advice.” 

“Do you seriously think that I can advise her to 
accept you,” she said with a contemptuous smile. 

I “ I think it would be to your advantage to do so,” 

I he answered. 

' “Why?” 

“For the same reason that induced you to give me 
the money I now have in my pocket.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you are going to continue 
to threaten me ? ” she said, a sudden wild despair seizing 
her. “ Is my peace of mind only to be won at the cost 
of sacrificing my daughter ? ” 
j “ It would be no sacrifice,” he said, doggedly. “ It 
I would be a good thing for you both.” 

I “ I see you now in your true colors. Captain 
I Malloret. I was indeed a fool when I listened to 
your promises, and believed that there 3^et remained 
one spark of honor or gentlemanlike feeling in you. 
As you say, it would be a good thing for both of us. 
A pleasant riddance for me to know that I had 
silenced the black-mailer, and a joyful prospect to my 
daughter to marry him. Are you aware that people 
I who extort money by threats are moi'e severely dealt 
I with by the law than an}' other class of criminals, save, 
t perhaps, a murderer? A common thief or burglar is 
I looked upon with greater leniency. He, at any rate, 


116 


A BAUGHTEKS SACBIFICE. 


risks something in committing his crime, but the 
scoundrel who lives upon the secret of some miserable 
victim who is in his power, richly deserves the terrible 
punishment he gets when he is discovered and con- 
victed. And it is this worse than thief, this cowardly 
blackguard and human vulture, who is proposed to me 
as a good husband for my daughter. No — a thousand 
times, no ! You may tell them the worst you know of 
me. Even that would be a better fate for us all than 
to unite ourselves with a man of your stamp.’’ 

She had worked herself into a fury as she poured 
forth these words. “ Have them in now,” she continued 
wildly, “ and let them hear their mother’s shameful 
story. Tell them all you know, and, then I will ask 
my son to give you the soundest thrashing that ever man 
had in this world.” 

“You are exciting yourself very unnecessarily,” he 
said, with that provokingly calm demeanor that he had 
maintained throughout the entire interview. “ My idea 
does not please you. Tant pis. I must think of an- 
other, that’s all.” 

“ Then pray do not let it be one that concerns me,” 
she said. “ From this day forth I decline ever to speak 
to you, and if ever you dare present yourself at my 
house the servants shall have instructions to kick you 
from the door.” 

“ The servants of la helle HeUne^'* he said with a 
cruel laugh ; “ you are really too amusing.” 

“ If I am amusing you are cruel and merciless,” she 
said, overcome by her great passion and feeling weak 
and prostrate. “ Have you no pity for me, no thought 
of what I must be suffering ? ” I 

“ You find a very powerful and abusive flow of Ian- 


A DAUGHTERS SACmFlCE. 117 

guage for your sufferings,” lie said with a smile. “ I 
had no idea what I should call forth when I sug- 
gested this plan. Seriously speaking, you will not find 
it so easy to obtain a husband for your daughter, 
whereas I can always find a wife. I might have mar- 
ried over and over again ; there are always women 
with money made in trade ready to marry a man who 
is heir to a title ; but I shudder at them all. Your 
daughter has been brought up as a lady and is in every 
respect most charming. I really think you might con- 
sider it.” 

“ It is out of the question,” she said, now in a calmer 
frame of mind. “ Alice could never love you, and I 
would never give my consent.” 

“ You may alter your mind ; and as to the girl, 1 
would do all the loving.” 

Mrs. Maroni trembled as she heard him speak so 
coolly and assuredly on the subject. Now that she 
was calmer she realized even more than ever the full 
horror of the situation. In her passionate rage she 
had declared herself to be reckless about anything he 
might say. But now that her reason had returned she 
felt that it would kill her if ever lier children learned 
her past. Then, too, she was certain that Harold would 
never hold up his head again. Alice, she did not so 
much think of. Her daughter was too childish and 
ignorant to fully realize what Malloret might divulge. 
But Harold ! Harold who loved her so dearly, who 
had always been such a good son. It was too terrible, 
too maddening ; her death could be the only way to 
secure peace for them all. And yet she did not want 
to die. She loved her children too well to wish to leave 
them. She sat down again and buried her face in her 


118 A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 

hands, having lost all self-control. Malloret saw her 
weakness and took advantage of it in order to pursue 
his idea. 

“ Are you coming round a little ? ” he said. “ Will 
you give me permission to pay my court to the young 
lady ? ” 

“ I cannot,” she moaned. “ It would be too awful — 
too awful ! Have some mercy upon me.” 

“ I will give you till to-morrow to think of it,” he 
said. ‘‘ I daresay a night’s reflection will do you good. 

And then he got up and walked towards the door. 

“ I suppose I may go and wish them good-bye? he 
said. “ And what time shall I call to-morrow ? ” 

“ For God’s sake, let me see you no more ! ” she 
cried in an impassioned voice, and at that moment 
Kingston and Alice entered the room. 

There could be no mistake this time as to the fact 
that a scene had taken place. Everything in Mrs. 
Maroni’s appearance denoted a fierce mental struggle, 
and the evidence of tears were strongly marked on her 
face. 

“ What’s the matter, mother ? ” said Alice, rushing 
forward to her and kissing her affectionately. 

Now this was too much for Mrs. Maroni, whose 
nerves finally gave way under the tenderness of her 
daughter. She felt the room turning round and then 
everything becoming dim, and in a moment more she 
lost consciousness, and Kingston had only just time to 
make a sudden start forward as Mrs. Maroni swayed 
for an instant, and then fell in a dead swoon into his 


arms. 


A DAUGHTEKS SACRIFICE, 


119 


CHAPTER XVL 

MALLOKET DETERMINES TO PURSUE HIS ADVANTAGE. 

It was some time before Mrs. Maroni recovered con- 
sciousness, and when at last she did so she was assailed 
by numberless inquiries as to the cause of her sudden 
illness. Curiously enough, it had occurred to none to 
question Malloret. While the poor lady remained in 
her swoon those about her were too much occupied in 
hunting for numerous remedies, and as soon as she 
showed any signs of improvement Malloret discreetly 
left the house. 

i Mrs. Maroni briefly told them that Captain Malloret 
j and she had been talking about old times, and that the 
I various incidents connected with her father which her 
f visitor had brought to her recollection had upset her, 
( and then she had cried, and then Alice’s sudden appear- 
! ance had startled her, and she was unable to remember 
anything else. It was all over now, and they must 
think no more about it. Alice and Harold of course 
i obeyed her, and implicitly believed her story; but 
i Kingston, who had heard her heart-broken appeal — 
i “ For God’s sake, go, and never let me see you again,” 
was not so credulous. He thought it very likely that 
this man might prove to be her husband, and that he 
had some shady story attached to his name which ren- 
dered it undesirable that he should declare himself to 
his children. Perhaps he had escaped from prison — 
his hair was certainly remarkably short; perhaps he 


120 


A BAUGTITEE'' 8 SACRIFICE. 


was an outlaw, and his presence in this country might 
be attended with considerable danger to himself ; per- 
haps — in short, speculation was endless as to what he 
might be. But in the many surmises that entered King- 
ston’s brain there was one that never for a moment 
found a place there, and that was that Malloret had 
been proposing for the girl he himself loved. 

Captain Malloret called in the course of the day, and 
made anxious inquiries after Mrs. Maroni’s state of 
health, but that lady had given strict orders that on no 
account was he to be admitted. She was too ill to see 
anyone, she declared, and she wished her children to 
remain with her. Malloret received the message with 
considerable ill-humor, which, indeed, he made no pre- 
tence to disguise, but he had not hardihood enough to 
attempt to force his way into Mrs. Maroni’s presence, 
so he determined that he would for the present quit 
the rural gold-mine he had discovered, and return to 
town laden witli a specimen of its ore. 

Anyhow he had money enough for his present neces- 
sities; and, under all the circumstances, his matri- 
monial projects might very well wait. . It was certainly 
a splendid idea this marriage with Alice Maroni, but it 
would be quite as well to let things calm down a little, 
and not be too precipitate in applying the thumbscrew 
to her mother. Mrs. Maroni must have time in which 
to rehect upon the disadvantages of an exposure, and 
when she had done so he would renew his demand, 
and this time he would admit of no refusal. 

So he took the evening express to London, and, much 
to the amazement of Mrs. Potter and her enchanting 
progeny, he arrived at their house next morning in 
time for breakfast. 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE, 121 

Mrs. Potter’s joy knew no bounds. She received her 
lodger, metaphorically and literally, with open arms. 
When the cab stopped and she caught sight of the port- 
manteau, whose departure had caused Theresa such 
sinister suspicions, she called out loudly to her children 
to come and witness the welcome sight. 

“ Tes ! Gus ! ” she screamed, “ come here. The cap- 
tain’s back, luggage and all: go and open the door to 
him,” and the next moment she had changed her cap 
and was standing in the passage fumbling for her purse 
in order to pay the cab. 

“ Oh I captain, this is a pleasant surprise ! ” she said, 
“ do you want change for the cabman ? Gus, don’t at- 
tempt to lift that box ; yon will strain yourself, dear. 
Where’s Mariar ? Mariar ! ” and so calling for the long- 
suffering cook she proceeded to bustle about in a wild 
state of excitement, during which, however, she man- 
aged to whisper to her promising son, “ Gus, go and 
fetch a pound of sausages round the corner; he likes a 
sausage with his breakfast.” 

Malloret magnanimously refused to allow Mrs. Potter 
to pay the cabman, and producing a handful of glitter- 
ing coins from his pocket he told the cook to pay the 
man with half a sovereign and added that she might 
keep the change for herself. This was almost too much 
for Mrs. Potter, who with difficulty restrained herself 
from shedding tears at the sight of her boarder s sud- 
den wealth. Then they all adjourned to the dining- 
room where the sight of the dirty tablecloth and pewter 
tea-service and the cheap crockery caused Malloret an 
involuntary shudder. How well he knew them, and 
how heartily he hated them ! 


122 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“ You never wrote ! ” said Mrs. Potter, with a min- 
gled look of reproach and affection. 

“ I had no time,” he answered ; “ I was too busy 
collecting my rents.” 

“ Well, never mind,” said the good-natured widow, 
“I hope you succeeded in getting them. You will 
find everything ready for you. Your room has had a 
thorough turn-out ; I lent Mariar a hand myself, and I 
daresay you will soon find that ‘ there’s no place like 
home ! ’ ” 

“ I scarcely feel I have any home now,” he answered 
somewhat ungraciously ; “ I have been so long a wan- 
derer on the face of the earth.” 

The twins had scarcely taken their eyes off him since 
he entered the house, but they never uttered a word. 
Theresa considered his return as. extraordinary as his 
sudden departure, and she was not prepared to show 
him any amiability until she heard that her mother’s 
plethoric bill was going to be paid. Augustus rarely 
took the initiative, and, as a rule, followed his sister’s 
lead, so he was waiting for her to say something before 
he committed himself. Malloret became uneasy under 
the steady glare of their four ghoulish eyes and he said 
rather impatiently; 

“ What are you staring at, children. Are you over- 
come with joy at my return ? ” 

“ I am not, ” said Theresa frankly, “ I don’t know 
whether Gus is.” 

And then Mrs. Potter reminded her son of the order 
she had given him to go and buy some sausages, and 
Augustus with a frankness equal to his sister’s, said : 

‘‘ I was waiting for the shilling ; you know the man 
won’t trust us I ” 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


123 


“ I know nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Potter 
sharply, and overcome with confusion she led him out 
of the room, and an angry altercation was heard on 
the other side of the door. 

“ Enjoyed yourself?” asked Miss Potter, as soon as 
she was left alone with her enemy. 

“ Pretty well, ” he answerd in the same laconic tone. 
“ I met some very nice people.” 

“ Any young ladies ? ” inquired Theresa. 

“ One, ” he answered briefly. 

“Did you mash her? ’’asked the twin, in language 
she had picked up from witnessing burlesques. 

“ I think it was the other way about, ” he said smil- 
ing, “ she mashed me.” 

“ Mother will be pleased, ” said Theresa, quoting a 
comic song, and then “ Mother ” came into the room and 
put an end to the conversation. 

“ I have sent some hot water up to your room,” she 
said pleasantly, in ignorance that the wrangle with Au- 
gustus had been heard by the captain. “ Breakfast will 
be ready in a few minutes, but I daresay you would 
like a wash first.” 

Malloret answered nothing, but left the room. ' Her 
expressions made him positively creep. “A wash,” 
he said indignantly to himself, “ why couldn’t she have 
said a bath ? ” 

As soon as he had gone, Mrs. Potter turned triumph- 
antly to her daughter. 

“Now, Miss Tessie, who was right? Didn’t I say 
he’d come back? ” 

“ You don’t know all,” said Theresa mysteriously. 

“What all?” said Mrs. Potter, heedless of gram- 


mar. 


124 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“ Never mind,” answered Theresa, “ I don’t think we 
shall keep him much longer.” 

‘‘ Good heavens ! What do you mean ? ” asked her 
mother. 

“ I gathered it from something he let drop.” * 

“ Theresa, 1 entreat you if you know anything to tell 
me,” said Mrs. Potter in great agitation- “ As your 
mother, I have a right to insist that you should do so.” 

But just then Augustus returned with the sausages 
oozing out of a manuscript paper which looked very 
much like a rejected poem that had doubtless caused its 
unfortunate author many a heavy sigh of disappointment. 

Plere they are,” he said, “ and twopence change. 
May I keep it ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” answered his mother, “ you had 
twopence last week.” 

In due time Malloret returned and graced the fes- 
tive board with his presence. He certainly did not 
look as if he thought there was no place like home. 
His spirits had been gradually falling ever since he 
had entered the house, and they were now perilously 
approaching zero. No, he could not stay another 
month or even a week in this tenth-rate boarding- 
house. He must pay Mrs. Potter something on ac- 
count and leave Clan William Terrace forever. The 
sausages were not sufficiently cooked, and displayed a 
sickening view of their ingredients when they were cut 
open, so they were again confided to “Mariar,” who 
came into the room wiping lier mouth on her apron. 
There was something wrong with the spout of the tea- 
pot, which caused tlie tea to come forth in reluctant 
dribbles or violent gusts according to the angle at 
which the handle was held ; the butter was rancid and 


A BAUGTITEWS SAClilFICE. 


125 


the bread stale. The whole repast revolted Malloret 
and made him more than ever determined to leave at 
once. 

As soon as Mrs. Potter had said the grace of thanks- 
giving, to which he obstinately refused to echo amen, 
he begged for a few minutes’ private conversation with 
her, and the twins were therefore dispatched to their 
, lessons. 

Malloret began by telling his landlady that he had 
not been quite so successful as he had anticipated, but 
that he was, nevertheless, in a position to pay her a con- 
siderable sum. Would she accept fifty pounds and 
consent to wait a little longer for the rest ? 

It is scarcely necessary to say that Mrs. Potter joy- . 
fully accepted this offer and that she begged her boarder 
to choose his own time for paying the balance. 

Malloret then took a bundle of notes from his pocket 
and proceeded to count out five of ten pounds each, 
and handing them to her he said : 

“With many thanks for your patience and kindness.” 

Mrs. Potter was almost ready to dissolve into tears, 
the money was so unexpected and welcome that she 
did not know what to say. With trembling hands she 
wrote out a receipt, which Malloret -declared was quite 
unnecessary, and then he proceeded to deal her what 
she called her death-warrant. 

“ Some strange things have happened since I have 
been away,” he said, “ and I may as well tell you, now 
that we are alone, that I am thinking of leaving you 
for good.” 

The widow grasped the back of a chair to prevent 
herself from falling, and sent up a silent prayer to be 
given strength to bear her trial, 


126 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


“My circumstances have materially altered,” he con- 
tinued, “and I find I shall not be able to remain 
here.” 

“It is very sudden,” she managed to gasp, and still 
clung to the chair. 

“ Yes, it is rather,” he assented. “ The fact is, Mrs. 
Potter, I am going to be married.” 

Then she released her hold on the chair, and feeling 
that her prayer had not been answered, she let herself 
go, and fell on the floor in a faint. 

Malloret was more furious than words can say. “ It 
seems to be my fate to be always making women faint,” 
he said to himself, and called out to the twins to come 
and assist their mother. 

They rushed into the room, and were soon in floods 
of tears. 

“You’ve killed ma! ” wailed Augustus. 

“ Murderer ! ” screamed Theresa. 

Fortunately, however, Mrs. Potter was one of those 
ladies who go in and out of swoons with great facility, 
and her children’s grief and a burnt feather applied by 
“ Mariar ” soon brought her to. 

“ I am better,” she murmured, opening one eye. 

“ What did he do ? ” inquired Theresa, glaring at 
Malloret. 

“ He has only broken my heart,” said Mrs. Potter, 
and then she closed the open eye and was again lost to 
consciousness. 

“ I merely told your mother that I was leaving her, ” 
said Malloret, and Mrs. Potter whose state of coma was 
not sufficiently complete to prevent her hearing liis 
words, gave a loud scream and varied her performance 
by going into hysterics. 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


127 


“ Have you paid her ? ” said Theresa, practical as 
ever ; and then her mother opened one of her clenched 
hands and displayed the notes that Malloret had just 
given her. 

“ I think she will be all right now,” said Malloret, 
ignoring Theresa, and so saying he left Mrs. Potter 
to the tender mercies of her children. 

He had made up his mind that he would not spend 
another night under the roof, and he went to his room 
in order to begin his preparations for departure. While 
he was thus engaged he determined to write to Mrs. 
Maroni and renew his offer for her daughter’s hand. 
It would be better to act at once, he decided. With 
Kingston hanging about, the girl might become engaged 
and even married while he was deliberating and expect- 
ing something to turn up. 

So he sat down and wrote as follows : 

“ Mv DEAR Helen, 

“ I daresay you will be a little surprised to hear from 
me after that last civil speech of yours in which you 
expressed a wish never to see me again. But the fact 
is that I have quite made up my mind to give up the 
joys of bachelorhood and to seek the calm and respect- 
ability of marriage. The sight of my surroundings here 
has so disgusted me with my existence that I feel I can- 
not possibly endure it any longer. 

“ It is useless for me to go over the ground we so re- 
cently ti*avelled together. It is better that I should 
come to the point at once, and I do so by suggesting 
that there be no unreasonable delay in my becoming 
the husband of your daughter. 

“I have before enumerated my many virtues, al- 


128 


A BAUGHTER'^S SACRIFICE. 


though this indeed was quite unnecessary, for I know 
you’re well acquainted with them. It therefore only re- 
mains for me to say that if you again pain me by refus- 
ing your consent to my marriage with Alice, I shall be 
under the painful necessity of asking her hand of her 
brother, to whom I shall naturally give the same reason 
for demanding it as I gave you. ” 

“ Believe me, 

“ Yours very sincerely, 

“ Stephen Malloret.” 

Having finished this precious letter he felt highly 
pleased with himself, and went out for a stroll and 
posted it. Upon further reflection he determined not 
to leave Bayswater that day ; he would await Mrs. 
Maroni’s answer, and, as in any case, he had made up 
his mind to return to Cornwall, it was not worth while 
to change his abode during the few days he would re- 
main in town. 

A week passed, and there was no answer. And then 
he wrote again, and this time a letter of a still more 
threatening character, and on that being apparently 
treated in the same fashion as its predecessor, he de- 
spatched another, even more brutal and cowardly than 
before. Still Mrs. Maroni made no sign. Malloret had 
determined to start for Cornwall, when the long-expected 
reply from Helen Maroni arrived. He opened it fever- 
ishly, and was positively amazed at its contents. 

“My Dear Captain Malloret,” wrote Mrs. 
Maroni 

“ I am coming up to London on a matter of great 
urgency in a few days, and I will then answer your 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


129 


\QttQv vivdvoce. Strange events have happened since 
we last met, and I think you will be interested in hear- 
ing what I have to tell you. 

‘‘Believe me, 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Helen Mahoni.” 

Malloret was much puzzled at this letter, and read it 
over two or three times without arriving at any satis- 
factory conclusion. Why had she not clearly told him 
what the strange events were that had happened? 

However, there was nothing to be done. He must 
patiently wait for her next move and resign himself 
to a few more days’ sojourn in Clan William Terrace. 

It was a great disappointment to him. He would 
have liked a direct reply one way or the other, and 
then he would have better known how to act. As it 
was, he was quite in the dark as to the course of con- 
duct Mrs. Maroni intended to pursue, and he chafed 
considerably at having to prolong his stay at Mrs. 
Potter’s. While thinking it all over, it suddenly occur- 
red to him that Mrs. Maroni might be playing him false. 
Perhaps she was hastening on a marriage between 
Alice and Kingston in view of frustrating his plans, or 
perhaps she was making arrangements for flight, and 
wanted to gain a little time in which to complete her 
preparations. He determined to have no nonsense of 
that sort, and so he sent oft a telegram to Mrs. Maroni, 
stating that if he did not receive a satisfactory answer 
to his proposition on the next day he should at once 
leave for Cornwall. In the course, of three or four 
hours came a telegram from her saying: 


130 


A BAUGIITEW a SACRIFICE. 


“ I shall be in London to morrow, and will call upon 
you.” 

This was decidedly good news. Clearly she was at 
last coming to her senses, and it would not be very diffi- 
cult to prove to her that he was thoroughly in earnest 
in liis intention to marry Alice, and that his threats had 
not been idle ones. 


A DAUGUTEWS SACRIFICE. 


131 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MKS. MARONI MAKES A CONFESSION. 

When Mrs. Maroni received Malloret’s first letter 
she was seized with precisely the same feelings of 
amazement and fear that had possessed her wlien the 
scoundrel had attempted to extort money from her. 
She had hoped that, as she had given him the sum he 
had asked for, he would have left her in peace, at any 
rate, for a while, and that she would have been able to 
think over what was best to be done before she heard 
from him again. It seemed to her that it would be 
little short of an infamy to consent to a union such as 
he proposed — a union without the slightest affection on 
either side. It was not likely that Alice would regard 
the matter from a favorable point of view, and she her- 
self would certainly not sacrifice her daughter to avoid 
her own exposure. Better, as she had told Malloret, 
that her children should know all rather than that 
Alice’s happiness should be sacrificed to this rascal’s 
selfishness and insatiable greed of money. In due time 
she received a letter from M. de Tesles, in answer to 
one she had written to him, but it afforded her no 
comfort. 

“You are as clever in dealing with these sort of peo- 
ple as I should be,” he wrote, “ and I really do not see 
what advice I can give you. Try and make him repeat 
his threats in writing, and then hand him over to the 
police or consult your lawyer. This is all I can think 


132 


A DAUGHTER' IS SACRIFICE. 


of, but I am afraid that it will not extricate you from 
your difficulty. As I do not know my children I can- 
not say in what light they would regard an exposure, 
but, frankly speaking, I think the days for heroics are 
over, and that you are troubling yourself unnecessarily. 
Your son has arrived at an age when, doubtless, he 
must have formed some opinion of your past life be- 
yond what you have actually told him, and if Captain 
Malloret attempts to enlighten him further, I should 
think that all the gentleman would receive for his pains 
would be a sound thrashing.” 

This letter was certainly not encouraging. She 
naturally understood her son better than did de Tesles, 
and she knew his high opinion of her, and his own high- 
principled nature. It was all very well for the blase 
Parisian to say that the days for heroics were over, but, 
at all events, they were not so as far as her children were 
concerned. Harold and Alice would never recover 
from such a blow if once they were to learn that they 
were both illegitimate, and that their mother had lived 
a lying life, not only before she came to Cornwall, but 
indeed ever since. Then, too, if they were to learn the 
real cause of her ])eriodical visits to London the knowl- 
edge would break their hearts. It would certainly 
break her own if their affection were to change and to 
turn into cold contempt and reproach. 

De Tesles’ advice was perfectly useless. If she were 
to adopt his suggestion and hand over the black-mailer 
to the police there would of course be a dreadful scandal ; 
and that was exactly what she wished to avoid. On 
the other hand, if she consulted her lawyer she would 
be hound to be guided by his advice, and there was no 
saying where or bow the afcir might end. It was 


A 1)AUG/IT^I2\S, SACniFlCB. 


133 


quite clear that if Malloret were to show his teeth the 
matter could not be determined without a great deal of 
publicity, which could not fail to have the most ruinous 
effects upon herself and her children. She looked upon 
Malloret in the scheme of creation as very little better 
than a sewer-rat, and she felt that if the animal were 
tackled b}" a legal terrier and driven into a corner he 
would be certain to show his teeth. 

The poor lady was perfectly distracted and kept her 
room for two whole days, during which she could only 
pray for some inspiration that would deliver her from 
her troubles. Harold and Alice were most attentive to 
her, and begged to be allowed to remain in her room 
all day, but truth to tell, she could scarcely bear their 
presence. She was nervous and unstrung, and she felt 
that she would be much better if left alone. She told 
them that she was suffering from nervous headache, and 
that the best cure for it was perfect rest and quiet. So 
the young people were left pretty much to their own 
devices, and Alice and Kingston spent many pleasant 
hours together, while Harold was almost always occu- 
pied in thinking of Marian Peny. A week passed and 
then Mrs. Maroni received Malloret’s second letter. Still 
slie did nothing, and it was only when a final letter 
arrived, breathing threats of a still more alarming char* 
acter, that Mrs. Maroni came to the conclusion that she 
must act at once. She had formed a hope that King- 
ston might do something for her. It was possible, and 
even probable, that he loved Alice, and by speaking to 
him she might perhaps induce him to suggest something 
that would obviate the sacrifice of her daughter. Di- 
rectly after breakfast she asked him to come and take 
a turn in the garden with her, and she determined to 


134 


A DAUGHTFE^S SACEIFICF. 


seek his aid and see what he would propose. It would, 
of course, be a painful ordeal to have to tell him that 
lier children were illegitimate, but, after all, anything 
was better than suffering in silence as she had done for 
the last few days. Her confidence might very prob- 
ably have the effect of throwing a douche on his affec- 
tion for Alice, and he might not care to marry a name- 
less child. But as to all that she was absolutely in- 
different. In the first place, Mr. Kingston was not the 
husband she would have chosen for her daughter, and, 
secondly, liis advice would doubtless be valuable. 

As soon as they were alone she began by saying that 
she had a purpose in asking him to come for this walk. 

“ I am in a terrible difficulty,” said Mrs. Maroni, 
“ and I think that you may be able to help me.” 

“ I shall be only too delighted,” he said. His curiosity 
was at last going to be gratified, and the thought made 
him pleased ; and then, as she still remained silent, he 
encouraged her to speak by saying : 

“ I fear that your difficulty relates to Captain Mal- 
loret; does it not?” 

“ It does,” she answered. “ How did you discover 
it?” 

“Your manner has changed since he came here,” he 
said. “ For some time past I have feared that there 
was something wrong.” 

“ He wishes to marry my daughter,” she said, and 
Kingston started as he heard tlie words. None of his 
suspicions had pointed in tliis direction. He had 
thought it very likely that Malloret might be Alice’s 
father, but the idea that he wished to marry her had 
never entered his head for a moment. 

“ You surprise me,” he said. “I never saw Captain 


A BAUGIITER'S SACRIFICE. 135 

Malloret pay her the least attention, and, in fact, he 
scarcely knows her.” 

“ It surprised me more than you,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ And you refused him ? ” 

“ I refused him, as you may suppose ; but he declines 
to accept my refusal, and has renewed his demand. 
You seel am in a terrible plight.” 

“ Is he so very undesirable ? ” 

“ He is altogether undesirable, and yet, strange as it 
may appear to you, I am not in a position to refuse 
him anything he asks me.” 

Then Kingston knew that the explanation was forth- 
coming and he pricked up his ears. 

“I gather that he has obtained some influence over 
you,” he said, “ and I fear that he has come here to 
make use of it.” 

“ He knows my past history,” she said sadly ; “ a 
history that is full of shame and sorrow, and he 
threatens me with exposure unless I accede to his pro- 
posal.” 

“The scoundrel ! ” ejaculated Kingston. 

“ I must tell you all,” said Mrs. Maroni. And then 
she paused. It was so difficult to begin her story and 
to lay bare lier past life to this new acquaintance. 

“ You may place every confldence in me,” he said 
encouragingly. 

“ I trust you as a man of honor,” she answered, 
“and you must promise me never to betray my con- 
fldence.” 

“ I pledge you my solemn word,” and then as she 
still remained silent and appeared unable to begin, he 
said : 

“ You have been divorced?” 


136 


A BAUGHTEKS SACAIIFICE. 


“I have never been married,” replied Mrs. Maroni*, 
and at this startling announcement Kingston pursed 
up his lips and gave vent to a low and prolonged 
whistle. This was the last piece of intelligence he 
liad expected to hear, and for the minute he could 
scarcely recover himself or think of anything to say. 

“ Your children are not aware of what you have told 
me ? ” he asked, after a few moments’ silence. 

“ They are in total ignorance of it,” she answered, 
“ and it is the fear that Malloret may tell them that is 
driving me distracted. I will not enter into all my 
life. Such a narrative would only tire you and pain 
me. I was betrayed when quite a young girl, and, 
guided by youth and inexperience, I accepted the 
situation instead of putting an end to my life as I 
suppose I ought to have done. But one day I suddenly 
broke off my past existence and I determined to leave 
the father of my children and to devote myself to 
them alone. I have done so for the last twelve years, 
leading a life of seclusion, caring only for tlieir educa- 
tion and welfare, and happy in the knowledge that I 
was securing the undying love of them both. My life 
has been dull, monotonous, and what would even ap- 
pear impossible to most women, but I accepted it 
readily and willingly, anxious only that I should 
retain my children’s love and respect, and thankful that 
I could in some measure expiate my early fault. And 
now, when I am beginning to earn my reward in the 
sight of their affection, and indeed devotion, I find my 
whole work shattered and myself threatened with 
utter disgrace and exposure. Is it not horrible ? ” 

“I pity you sincerely,” said he. “I suppose the 
rascal wants to secure Alice’s money ?” 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE. 


137 


“ Naturally. He is a dissolute spendthrift, and lias 
run through every sliilling he has ever had, and anti- 
•cipated everything that was coming to him. He is the 
kind of man who will stop at nothing now that he is 
penniless.” 

“ Does he know that your daughter will have a 
fortune ? ” 

“Of course he does ; and he told me that it was not 
every man who would care to marry my daughter.” 

Kingston hesitated. It was perfectly true that many 
men were not anxious to many the daughters of ladies 
who admitted having had early faults, but he had no 
such scruples himself, and in his own lazy way he loved 
Alice. He had no fortune to offer her in return, and he 
disliked the idea of marrying a girl for her money. But 
he determined, nevertheless, to tell Mrs. Maroni a con- 
siderable portion of what had happened between them 
and to hear what she had to say on the subject. 

“ I am scarcely in a position to advise you,” he said, 
“ and after you have heard what I have to tell you, you 
will be better able to understand my embarrassment. 
You may, peihaps, have noticed that I have paid your 
daughter a great deal of attention and you will possibly 
not be surprised that we have learned to love each other 
and that she has promised to be my wife.” 

Mrs. Maroni was not greatly surprised. The first 
part of his declaration slie had already guessed, although 
she was scarcely prepared to hear that Kingston had 
proposed to Alice and liad been accepted by lier. 

“And do you mean to say that what I have told you 
will make no difference in your feelings ?” 

“It will not make the slightest difference,” he said. 
“ I love Alice for herself, and neither the knowledge of 


138 


A DAUGHTERS SACBIFICE. 


your past nor the fear of your ultimate exposure would 
make me change my mind.” 

Then Mrs. Maroni was relieved. It was comforting 
to know that there was a man leady to marry her daugh- 
ter who knew the worst that could be said about her. 
Still the knowledge of this did not remove her anxiety 
about Malloret, indeed she felt it would only complicate 
matters. If Captain Malloret were to hear that Alice 
and Kingston loved each other it would make him more 
desperate than ever. 

“ I am thankful to you for your kind words,” she said, 
“ very thankful, indeed, for Alice’s sake, that it will 
make no difference in your affection. But what am I 
to do about Captain Malloret ? You know that it would 
kill Harold if ever he were to learn the truth.” 

“ Harold loves you devotedly,” said Kingston. “ He 
is never tired of singing your praises, and I believe that 
his love is so great that he would never listen to a Avord 
against you — and that Avhatever Malloret said would 
make no difference in his affection.” 

“ All you say is true,” she answered. “ But it only 
makes me dread the more Avhat he would feel if he were 
to know his mother’s history.” 

“ I suppose it Avould be impossible to buy this villain 
off with a lump sum? ” suggested Kingston. 

“ It would not be of the slightest use,” she answered. 
“ As I have told you, he is a gambler and a spendthrift. 
No amount of money that I might give him would in- 
sure my peace in the future.” 

“ Then I really do not see in what way I can help 
you. I can only ask you formally for the hand of your 
daughter and I should imagine then that Malloret would 
see that his case is hopeless.” 


A nAlTGlTTEli'S SACniFICE. 


139 


“ And then, of course, he would speak and disgrace 
me out of revenge,” she said wearily. 

“ When once I am your daughter’s husband and have 
the right to protect you both, I do not think that you 
will have much more to fear. Captain Malloret is one 
of those vagabonds who are very fierce when they have 
only a defenceless woman to deal with, but they exhib- 
it very little courage indeed when brought face to face 
with a man. Be guided by me, my dear lad}^ Put 
aside your fears and act boldly. Let me be received as 
3"our daughter’s affianced husband — defy this black- 
mailer and leave me to deal with him.” 

‘‘ It shall be as you say,” said Mrs. Maroni. “ I feel 
easier in my mind than I have felt for many a long day. 
I cannot say that ail anxiety has passed away, but I 
have perfect confidence in you, and I know that you 
will act for the best. You will not find me ungrateful, 
INIr. Kingston. Pray believe that I now see how wise 
I was to trust you." 

“ You will never regret the confidence you have re- 
posed in me, Mrs. Maroni,” said Kingston. 

‘‘ I am sure of that,” she answered, and they re- 
turned to the house. 

‘‘Shall I tell her everything ?’' Kingston asked him- 
self. “ No ; after all,” he thought, “it will be better 
to wait.” 


140 


A UAUGlITEli^S SAClilFlCE. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Kingston’s fate. 

Alice was soon made acquainted with the fact that 
Kingston had asked her mother’s consent to their mar- 
riiige and that Mrs. Maroni had agreed to accept him 
as a son-in-law. The next days were very pleasant ones 
for the young people, who seemed to grow more and 
more attached to each other and little guessed the ter- 
rible denoument to their love-making that was looming 
in the immediate future. 

A few days after the lawn-tennis party came an 
invitation to dinner at the Perrys’, and this was accept- 
ed by Mrs. Maroni for the three young people although 
not for herself. Nothing would induce her to go into 
society under false pretences and render herself liable 
to a reproach that she felt would be well deserved if the 
secret of her life should ever be discovered. So when 
tlie niglit of the dinner-party arrived, her son, and her 
daughter, and her daughter’s fiance started off in high 
spirits, leaving her at home to ponder upon the hard- 
ships that fate inflicts upon those that wander, no mat- 
ter under what extenuating circumstances, from a cer- 
tain narrow path that all mothers who value their peace 
of mind must walk in, or, at all events, appear to walk 
in, and give the world no opportunity of asserting the 
contrary. 

The young people on reaching The Towers found 
that the dinner-party was a large one. In addition to 


A BAUGETEWS SACBIFICE. 


141 


several of the neighboring magnates and their wives 
and daughters, there was a large house party whose chief 
ornament was Mr. Justice Twistem, who rejoiced in 
the reputation of being a hanging judge, but was in real- 
ity extremely kind-hearted, and one of the “ mildest-man- 
nered men who ever cut a throat” — we mean sentenced 
a criminal to be hanged by the neck until he was dead. 
Harold was fortunate enough to be told off to Marian 
Perry, but Kingston was, of course, separated from 
Alice Maroni, and, to his horror, was compelled to take 
down to dinner a certain Miss Sophonisba Tomkyns a 
lady who was the terror of every member of the male 
persuasion with whom she came in contact, and was 
supposed to belong to an advanced school of thought. 
Miss Tomkyns’s mother had been at school with Mrs. 
Perry, and thus it was that she was staying at The 
Towers. 

The dinner was the ordinary kind of dinner to be 
met with at the Perrys’, and calls for no special com- 
ment. Suffice it to say that it was remarkably well 
cooked, for Mr. Perry possessed a cordon hleu and the 
wines were beyond reproach. It served, however, as 
the subject of an amusing little after-dinner discussion 
when the men of the party had joined the ladies. 

The discussion was commenced b}^ Mrs. Perry, who 
remarked that their next neighbor. Lord Harkaway, 
had been unable to be present as he had been compelled 
to run up to town to vote upon the question of vivisec- 
tion or no vivisection, and Mrs. Perry expressed her- 
self in no measured terms in dealing with this subject, 
declaring that she regarded vivisection as one of the 
most barbarous and unnecessary practices that had 
lately grown up in Qur 


142 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE, 


The bishop of the diocese, Doctor Celester, who had 
come over from St. Columb Palace to dine, entirely 
concurred with Mrs. Perry. “ This is a question,” said 
the right reverend prelate, ‘‘in which humanity is most 
deeply interested, and I am very glad to hear that Lord 
Harkaway has taken the trouble to go up to London to 
record his vote. He is a young man who will make 
his mark in life. His little volume, ‘ Big Bags of Big 
Game in the Black Continent,’ shows him to be a 
master of vivid English and a man of intrepid courage. 

“ Oh, it was too charming ! ” chimed in Miss Tom- 
kyns. “1 remember a delightful chapter in which he 
shot fourteen lions in one morning and was nearly 
tossed by a rhinoceros. It was quite too delicious ! I 
am sure that if Lord Harkaway had a vote he gave it 
against those horrid vivisectionists ! Only think of the 
cruelty of the thing ! It makes me shudder ! Do tell 
me. Sir Joseph Twistem, can we not have them flogged 
like garrotters are ? ” 

“It would be very desirable,” said the bishop. 

“And what do you think, Mr. Kingston? ” said Miss 
Tomkyns. “We have not heard your opinion yet.” 

“ Well said Geoffrey, “ I never form an opinion hur- 
riedly. But I quite agree with you that to inflict pain 
upon animals is utterly indefensible, except for a good 
and great purpose.” 

“ The end occasional!}^ justifies the means,” said the 
bishop. 

“ Exactly so,” chimed in Mr. Justice Twistem. 
“ Exactly so ; but where is the end ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Perry, “where indeed? That is 
the point.” 

These brutal creatures,” said Miss Tomkyns, “ cut 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


143 


poor animals to pieces and boil them alive, and bake 
them alive, and cut their eyes out, and do everything 
that is horrible, and then justify themselves by saying 
that science is the better for what they call thBir 
researches. Oh ! It is quite too utterly shocking ! 

“ It is atrocious,” said Mrs. Perry. 

“I hope you will pardon me for saying so,” said 
young Kingston, “ but I think you take a somewhat 
one-sided view of the matter.” 

“ And pray, sir,” said the bishop, “ how do you justify 
this cruel and unchristian practice-? ” 

“ It is not my place to justify it, my lord ; but since 
you ask me the question, allow me to reply by another. 
How does your lordship justify the most cruel and un- 
christian dinner of which I have this evening seen you 
take your full share ? ” 

“ Really, sir — ” said the bishop. 

“Cruel and unchristian,” echoed Mrs. Perry. 

“ Oh, Mr. Kingston ! ” cried Miss Tomkyns. 

“ Hush, hush,” said Mr. Justice Twistem, lifting up 
his hand ; let us hear what the young gentleman has 
to say.” 

“Now it was an excellent dinner,” said Kingston. 

“ True,” answered the bishop and the judge in a 
duet. 

“We had tortue claire^'' continued Kingston. “ That 
turtle had its throat cut, and was hung up to bleed to 
death. It takes a turtle about a day to bleed to death. 
This tenacity of life in the turtle is a great difficulty 
to cooks.” 

“ Well, but really ” said the bishop. 

“ Pardon me,” said Kingston, “ I remember that one 
pf the dishes following was crimped salmon. The fish, 


144 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE, 


while still alive, had been cut down with sharp knives 
to the backbone in order that its flesh might be more 
tender.” 

“ Really, sir,” said the bishop, “ is there any occasion 
for these details ? They are very distressing.” 

“ They are altogether too entirely and utterly cruel,” 
cried Miss Tomkyns, clasping her hands and throwing 
back her head ; “and I wonder Mr. Kingston can talk 
about them, especially after dinner.” 

“I must say 1 concur,” said Mr. Justice Twistem. 
“ There are certain matters which, if not in camera, are 
yet in cuisind” And the judge expanded his chest 
with the air of a man who had put an end to the dis- 
cussion. 

“ I talk of these matters,” said Kingston, “ because 
they are facts, and usefully illustrative. Let us take 
some other dishes on this menu. I assisted you. Miss 
Tomkyns, to some lobster salad, which you seemed to 
enjoy. Now the lobsters that composed that salad had 
been put into cold water and then slowly boiled alive.” 

“ Dear, dear,” said the bishop. 

“ And more lobsters,” continued Kingston, “ are 
boiled alive in London in one day than animals are 
killed by vivisectionists all over Europe in the course 
of the year. But there is this in the form of vivisection 
I cannot uphold : it is when the experiment is cruel in 
itself, and no knowledge or good can possibly be gained 
from it.” 

“ Quite so, exactly so,” said the bishop and the judge, 
again in unison. 

“ As when you tear an animal to pieces ” 

“ Oh, horrible ! Do not talk about it,” said Mrs. 
Perry. 


A BAUGIITBU’S SACBIFICE. 


145 


“In which pursuit, Mrs. Perry, many of those who 
have gone up to London to vote against vivisection are 
actively engaged during the greater part of the winter. 
Besides, I think Miss Tomkyns told me at dinner that 
you were often kind enough to take her to Huiiingham, 
and that she enjoyed the pigeon-shooting immensely.” 
- “ The dear Prince was there,” eried Miss Tomkyns. 

“ Come, Mr. Kingston,” said the judge, “ is it fair to 
push our kindly hostess in this way ? ” 

“And Providence,’^ added the bishop, “ in its infinite 
mercy, has given man dominion over the beasts of the 

field and the fowls of the air, and ” 

“ I was not rude enough to dream of attacking our 
charming hostess, my lord ; I was rather addressing my- 
self to your lordship and to Sir Joseph Twistem. I 
know that both of you have made speeches at public 
meetings accusing the medical profession — which is as 
honorable as any— of wanton cruelty. I do not think 
these asj^ersions are altogether fair. And I say, with- 
out fear of contradiction, that the dinner taken by you, 
my lord bishop, and that by you, Mr. Justice Twistem, 
in its preparation involved more torture in one day 
than is practised in any physiological laboratory in the 
course of a month.” 

“ There is common sense in these matters,” said the 
judge. “We must give and take.” 

“We must be all things to all men,” said the bishop. 
“ If 5^ou were consistent,” said Mr. Kingston, “ you 
would be a vegetarian. I have what I hope to be com- 
mon sense. I eat my lobster salad and my crimped 
salmon, but I do not then go away and denounce it as 
cruel to vivisect a rabbit with the view to discover the 
nature of a painful and fatal disease and the best 
10 


146 


A DAUGIirmrS SACRIFICE. 


method of curing it. I heard a lady speaking a few 
months ago at an anti-vivisectionist meeting, and ob- 
served that she wore a dolman of sealskin trimmed 
with sable which must have cost at least two hundred 
guineas. Now the animals from which those skins 
were taken had been skinned alive, and, by the way, I 
notice. Miss Tomkyns, your dress is trimmed with 
pretty little humming-birds, the slaughter of which has 
been no possible benefit, and adds nothing to the 
charms with which nature has graced you.” 

“ The pursuit of science for its own sake,” said the 
bishop, softly, “ and without broader views of duty, 
renders the human heart sadly hard and proud.” 

“ Yes,” said the judge, “and also blinds us to ordi- 
nary facts and to the recognized value of evidence.” 

And with that profound remark the subject dropped, 
and nothing further worth recording took place, with 
the exception that Harold Maroni and Marian Perry 
fell more in love with each other than ever, and prof- 
ited by the few opportunities that occurred in the 
drawing-room to tell each other as much. 

The whole party returned in excellent spirits, and 
Mi-s. Maroni obtained a reflected pleasure from wit- . 
nessing their happiness apparently unalloyed. 

******** 

Two days later a most terrible calamity befell the ^ 
Maroni family. After breakfast Geoffrey Kingston 
had wandered by the side of the River Fowey, that i 
ran through Mrs. Maroni ’s grounds. He was alone, for ; 
Harold was busy with his morning occupation of tying 
flies and mending a lawn-tennis racket, and Alice was ] 
attending to her mother, who was almost prostrate with ^ 
a sick headache. 


A DAUGHTER'S SxiCRlFJCE. 


147 


Now, a hundred yards or so from where Kingston 
was walking there were two little urchins of some nine 
or ten years, fishing, and one of them, feeling a bite 
and leaning over in the excitement, fell into the river ; 
and the other, reaching forward in an attempt to extri- 
cate his companion from his perilous position, shared a 
similar fate, and when Kingston, who had witnessed 
the accident, came to the rescue, both lads had sunk 
twice. Kingston, who was an expert swimmer, did not 
hesitate for a moment, but plunged into the stream. 

Now there are emergencies in which swimming is 
absolutely useless. We need not speak of the Niagara 
Kapids immediately above the great falls. It is enough 
to imagine what would happen to a man if he fell into 
the little, whirling, headlong current that tumbles down 
the Pass of Killiecrankie. Swimmer or no swimmer, 
his brains would be dashed out against the rocks and 
boulders. Nor does all his skill avail a man much if 
he falls overboard heavily dressed on a dark, cold night, 
with a dangerous sea and a high wind, and while the 
vessel is going at her fastest rate of speed. And there 
are other accidents that may have the effect of neutraliz- 
ing the skill of a Leander, or a Davenport, or a Webb. 
Swimming, in short, is like running: it will save us 
from all ordinary risks and hazards. On occasions of 
extraordinary peril, it is useless. 

Kingston managed to grasp both the boys almost at 
the same time, and then attempted to reach the side of 
the bank. But this, to his horror, he found impossible. 
The fishing lines, together with some weeds, had become 
entangled round his legs and he was practically unable 
to move. He just managed to push the boys he had 
rescued i» the direotion of the bank, and the little fel- 


148 


A DAUGIITFJl'S SACIilFICK 


lows reached it in safety and clambered out of the river 
more dead than alive. Then they turned to look at 
their preserver, who was frantically struggling in the 
vain attempt to get free, and the more intelligent of the 
two, realizing the position, rushed away for help, fol- 
lowed by his friend, who was too frightened and dazed 
to understand what was taking place. 

They soon came upon a farm laborer and to him they 
told tlieir tale, and all three hastened back to the scene 
of the accident, but when they got there Kingston was 
not to be seen. Half-an-hour later, with the assistance 
of Harold Maroni, the body was recovered and then, it 
is needless to say, the unhappy young man was dead, 
lie had gone to his last account tortured with the 
thought of the serious injury he had inflicted upon the 
girl that loved him so well ; but for the rest, like most 
young Englishmen in the presence of death, he had met 
his fate bravely enough. 

Alice’s agony at hearing of her lover’s fate baffles 
description. For days she never quitted her room, re- 
fusing all comfort, and begging that she might be left 
alone. She roused herself sufficiently to pay her last 
farewell to Geoffrey and to place a cross of flowers on 
his breast before the lid of the coffin was soldered down, 
and slie was desirous of attending the funeral, but her 
state of health was such that Mrs. Maroni gently dis- 
suaded her from any such attempt. 

An elder brother of Mr. Kingston’s — a 3mung bar- 
rister — represented his family on this painful occasion 
and returned to town the next day. At Alice’s special 
request no mention was made to him of her engage- 
ment to his brother, and he merely attributed her ill- 


A DAUGHTEICS SACBIFICE. 149 

ness to the shock that the sad event of the previous 
week had naturally given her. 

Two days after the funeral, Alice, being alone with 
her mother, told her that she had something on her 
mind that she could not keep from her any longer. 
Mrs. Maroni was naturally anxious to hear what this 
could be, and then Alice confessed that three weeks 
before Geoffrey Kingston’s death a secret marriage 
had taken place between them. She was not a disap- 
pointed bride-elect, but a heart-broken widow ! Mrs. 
Maroni could scarcely believe that she heard aright ; 
it all came upon lier Avith such suddenness that she 
remained gazing at her daughter, unable to speak. 
Then Alice, continuing, related the circumstances un- 
der which the marriage had taken place. 

Geoffrey was dependent on an uncle who wished 
him to many his ward — a West Indian heiress of great 
wealth. He had partly consented to this union, and 
there was a sort of engagement between them ; but 
when once he saw Alice, he felt that the engagement 
must cease, and he had Avritten to his uncle to that 
effect, and told him that he had placed his affections 
elsewhere. He had received a very angry letter in re- 
ply, in which lus uncle insisted that lie should give up 
Miss Maroni at once and keep to his former engage- 
ment ; and the old gentleman threatened that unless 
this Avas done he Avould at once stop his nephcAv’s 
alloAvance. Geoffrey Avas entirely dependent on the 
income he derived from his uncle, and Avoiild have 
been compelled to leave Cambridge if it Avas stopped, 
and yet he had grown to love Alice above all else. 
And so he gained her consent to a secret marriage, 


150 


A DAUGHTEICS SACUIFICE, 


trusting that when his uncle learnt that all interfer- 
ence was useless he would forgive him. 

Mrs. Maroni listened in silence to Alice’s recital, in 
which there were many more details than we have 
given, and her surprise and anger gradually reached 
a climax when she heard her daughter’s last word. 

“Mr. Kingston behaved most dishonorably^” she 
said. “I^an find no excuse for his conduct. He 
abused the hospitality that I offered him, and he taught 
you to deceive your mother in a maimer of which I 
should have thought you incapable.’ 

Alice was, of course, very penitent, and could only 
pray for her mother’s forgiveness. Her sin, such as it 
was, had met with a speedy punishment, and surely 
she had suffered enough. 

“ Then your marriage must be announced to the 
world,” said Mrs. Maroni. “ But have you thought of 
the shame of letting people know only after your hus- 
band’s death that you are married ? ” 

“I have thought of everything, till my head reels 
and I am ready to die,” said Alice. “ I have prayed 
even that I might die lest I should be tempted to take 
my own life.” 

“ It is useless to talk like that,” said her mother. 
“We must think what can be done for the best,” and 
then she paused. This last blow had almost deprived 
her of her reasoning faculties, and she had immediately 
thought of Malloret and how he would be affected by 
it. Clearly he would now show her no mercy. He 
would never believe that this marriage liad taken place 
without her connivance, and indeed would probably 
imagine that she had urged it on. It was no use, how- 
ever, to upbraid Alice. They must reflect together 


A DAUaHTER^S SACRIFICE, 151 

over what was best to be done. And then suddenly a 
horrible thought struck her Her daughter must have 
been married in the name of Maroni — an assumed 
name in which she had no right — and this fact might 
make her marriage illegal. She hesitated before telling 
Alice of the dreadful idea that had come into her mind, 
and then she finally decided to make a clean breast of 
the truth, and to tell her daughter the history of her 
own life, of Malloret’s threats, and of the possibility 
that Alice might now find herself in the same position 
as her moxher had been placed twenty years ago. 

“The position must be clearly explained to you,” 
she said. “ You have confided to me the first secret of 
your life, and I need not say that it is a terrible one for 
me to hear, but what I have to tell you is still more 
startling.” 

Then, she nerved herself for the ordeal, and told 
Alice the whole story of her wretched life. She spared 
herself in no way. She told her daughter of her own 
miserable sufferings — the inevitable consequences of 
an early fault, a fault for which there is no remedy. 
She spoke in a hard, calculating way, quite foreign to 
her, and Alice listened in dumb amazement. Was it 
possible that her mother, whom they had all looked up 
to as the purest and best of women, had all along led a 
lying life? Her jouineys to London a mere pretext to 
meet their father — a father who did not recognize them 
and appeared indifferent to their very existence ? Then, 
too, her pretended widowhood was a sham and a lie 
also. 

It was all so surprising, so shocking, that Alice could 
not believe it or take it in for a moment, and then Mrs. 
Maroni proceeded to tell her of Malloret’s threats, and 


J.n2 ^ DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 

the fear that he had caused her. This was also start- 
ling to Alice, and became more so when her mother 
told her the price at which his silence was to be ob- 
tained. The unhappy girl recoiled in horror, and 
vehemently declared that nothing on earth would in- 
duce her to consent to such a union. But she still had 
the worst to hear, and that was that her own marriage 
with Kingston was doubtless illegal. She had told 
Mrs. Maroni that there was a likelihood of her becom- 
ing a mother, and the situation looked unutterably 
black and hopeless. 

Mrs. Maroni felt a certain relief in knowing that her 
daughter was now acquainted with everything, and 
that one of the awful fears that Malloret held over her 
head was gone ; but there still remained Harold, and it 
was of him that she thought the most. She explained 
this to Alice, and together they decided that, at all 
events, Harold must be kept in ignorance of his 
mother’s past. 

“ Will not money suffice to keep Captain Malloret 
silent ? ” inquired Alice. 

“ I fear not,” replied her mother. “ I gave him two 
hundred pounds only a few weeks ago, and imme- 
diately afterwards he proposed to me for you. He 
cannot be depended upon for one moment.” 

Then Alice had a supreme moment of inspiration ; 
an idea, horribly revolting, if you like, occurred to her 
by which her mother and Harold might be saved and 
her own reputation left untarnished. Looking at her 
mother calmly in the face, and speaking in hard and 
distinct tones, she said : 

“ I will marry Captain Malloret, mother. By doing 
so his mouth will be forever closed, and your future 


A BAUGllTEIVS SACniFJGE, 


153 


peace will be assured, and, in addition, my hasty mar- 
riage with Geoffrey will forever remain unknown.*’ 

Her mother looked at her in amazement. In place 
of the child she had always considered her, she now 
saw before her a woman, with a woman’s strong reso- 
lution and purpose. 

“ It is impossible,” said Mrs. Maroni, when she had 
recovered her surprise ; “ I would not hear of such a 
sacrifice.” 

“ It would not be altogether a sacrifice,” said Alice, 
“ if my marriage is illegal.” And then she repeated, 
“ I will marry Captain Malloret, but only upon one 
condition. I refuse to live with him under any pretext 
whatever. If he will consent to these terms, you can 
tell him that I will marry him.” 

It was after this conversation that Mrs. Maroni sent 
her letter to Clan William Terrace informing Malloret 
of her arrival. There was a great deal more said be- 
tween the mother and daughter, but Alice remained 
firm to her decision. She clearly realized the horror of 
the situation, but she determined that Harold should 
never experience the agony she herself had felt when 
she heard her mother’s confession ; and it was this, 
more than any thought for herself, which made her 
look calmly at the idea of a marriage with Malloret. 


154 


A DAITGIITER\S SACRIFICE, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE MARRIAGE ARRANGED. 

Mrs. Maroni rang tlie bell of Clan William Ter* 
race with a feeling of dread at the interview that was 
before her. She had reached London the very day 
after her discussion with Alice, and was the bearer of 
her daughter’s consent to marrying Malloret. 

Maria showed her into the drawing-room in which 
Malloret had spent so many excruciating hours, and as 
she glanced round at the faded furniture and the old 
Avorn-out piano and harmonium, she thought to herself 
that it was no wonder that he should be anxious to 
leave such surroundings. While she was thus engaged, 
Mrs. Potter sailed majestically into the room, followed 
closely by Theresa and Augustus, looking like an old 
hen who was very proud of her first brood of chickens. 

“ You wish to see the captain,” she said doubtfully, 
wondering in her mind if this handsome, well-dressed 
lady was a powerful rival or only one of his long- 
suffering creditors. 

“ Yes. Is he not at home ? ” answered Mrs. Maroni, 
in her quiet, well-bred voice. 

“ He is not up,” said Theresa bluntly. “ He never 
gets up to breakfast.” 

“ If you would kindly send him my card, I think he 
would see me,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ I have done so,” said the widow, “ but I daresay 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


155 

he is somewhat taken aback — he receives so few visit- 
ors. In fact, I may say you are the first he has ever 
liad.” 

“ I have come upon a matter of business,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. 

“ Oil, indeed ! ” responded the widow, and the twins 
exchanged glances expressive of great mistrust. 

“ He never gives his address to any one,” hazarded 
Theresa, as mucli as to say, “ How did you get it? ” 

“ He gave it to me,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

And then Mrs. Potter felt that she was in the pres- 
ence of a rival and not of a creditor. 

“It is rather unusual for ladies to call upon gentle- 
men ; is it not ? ” she said, with what was intended to 
be a sweet smile. 

“It is necessary sometimes,” answered Mrs. Maroni 
coldly ; and then Mrs. Potter remarlced to lierself that 
this self-possessed person must be a fellow victim. 

“Perhaps you know that he has been away?” said 
Mrs. Potter, anxious to sound lier visitor. “ He only 
returned a few Aveeks ago. We missed him dread- 
fully, and I think he must have been sorry to lose his 
many little home comforts. We do not treat him as a 
boarder ; he is quite like one of ourselves, and I think 
he is getting quite attached to the children.” At this 
flagrant lie the twins gave a united sniff, which cleaily ' 
meant that the attachment, if it existed, was not recip- 
rocated. Mrs. Maroni recollected that the description 
that Malloret had given of liis liome did not quite tally 
with that of Mrs. Potter, but she Avas polite enough to 
say that it Avas pleasant for a man to have family sur- 
roundings. 

“He is going to be married, is he not?” asked 


156 


A DAUGBmU^S SACRIFICE 


Theresa abruptly, and the words made Mrs. Potter 
blanch to a deadly pallor. 

“ That is more than I can say,” answered Mrs. 
Maroni, and then added, “ Has he told you so ? ” 

“ He mentioned something about it,” said the girl, 
carelessly, “ and he gave ma notice.” 

“ I think he was only in fun,” said Mrs. Potter, 
whose wish was father to the thought. “ A gentleman 
generally knows when he is wiell off.” 

“Yes; few people would have considered him a 
marrying man,” said Mrs. Maroni calmly. And then 
the widow was more baffled than ever. 

“What mysterious errand could bring this woman 
to Clan William Terrace,” she thought. “ She seemed 
utterly to ignore the captain’s approaching marriage 
and not to be in the least upset at hearing of it. Why, 
then, had she come ? ” Mrs. Potter felt that she must 
really put some more searching question. 

“ You did not mention if you were a relation of 
Captain Malloret’s?” she said, rather impertinently, 
and Mrs. Maroni was sufficiently nettled to reply : 

“I sent my card to Captain Malloret; I am not 
aware that further explanation is necessary.” 

“ Oh, certainly not ; I meant no offence,” said Mrs* 
Potter, “only,' as I say, being like one of ourselves we 
naturally take a great interest in him.” 

“ I am sure he must be very grateful,” said Mrs. 
Maroni dryly. 

Then there was a silence, during which the twins 
minutely scrutinized every article of Mrs, Maroni’s 
apparel, to that lady’s intense disgust. She had nerved 
herself for the interview with Captain Malloret, and 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


157 


she longed for it to begin and to be free from the ill- 
mannered questions of these vulgar people. 

“ Will you take any refreshment? ” said Mrs. Potter, 
who had hesitated between that remark and observing 
that it was a fine day. The visitor was not communi- 
cative, and Mrs. Potter felt that something must be 
said on general topics. 

Before Mrs. Maroni could reply, Captain Malloret 
entered the room, and she welcomed his advent with a 
sigh of relief. 

“ I am delighted to see you, my deai: friend,” said 
the captain, addressing Mrs. Maroni. “ Mrs. Potter, 
will you be good enough — ^?” But before Malloret 
could get any further his aggrieved landlady bounced 
out of the room with the twins at her heels. 

“ I did not exaggerate the description I gave of that 
worthy lady?” continued the captain. 

‘‘ No, I cannot say you did.” 

You can scarcely wonder at my wishing to change 
my condition, and at my longing to join your charming 
circle.” 

Mrs. Maroni made no answer, but she felt that she 
hated Captain Malloret more than ever, and at this 
eleventh hour she hesitated at linking her unfortunate 
daughter to such a scoundi’el. However, she felt that 
there was no help for it. 

“ Well, what have you decided?” said Malloret, un- 
able any longer to restrain his curiosity. “ What have 
you decided? Let me hear.” 

“ I have been thinking over all you have said.” 

“Yes; well?” 

“ And I feel half inclined to consent.” 

“ I was sure that you would do so, I will be to 


158 


A DAUGIimB^iS SACniFICK 


your daughter the pearl of husbands; I will indeed.” 

“Very possibly,” said Mrs. Maroni, “but that is not 
what 1 came to discuss. I think we had- better come 
to the point at once ; probably that will be more 
agreeable for both of us. The fact is, Captain Mah 
loret, I have been left no alternative in this matter.” 

“ Don’t say that, I beg ; don’t say that.” • 

“ It is quite true, whether I say it or not.” 

“ You must forgive me if my wooing was a little 
brusque,” said Captain Malloret. “ The real truth is 
that I became madly in love with Alice the moment I 
saw her, and I knew there was no other way to obtain 
her hand except by acting as I did. I daresay I was 
wi’ong, and that you loathe and despise me for it. But, 
after all, qm voulez-vous? ‘All’s fair in love and war/ 
you know.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Maroni, with inten- 
tion, “ ‘ all’s fair in love and war.’ ” 

“ Well, let us understand each other clearly. You 
have come here to tell me that you give your consent? ” 
“ Yes, I have come here to tell you that I give my 
consent.” 

“ Have you spoken to Alice ? Not that that matters 
much.” 

“ Yes, I have spoken to Alice.” 

“ And she consents as well? ” 

“ Yes, she consents as well.” 

“ When may the marriage take place ? ” 

“ The sooner the better,” said Mrs. Maroni. “ When 
a person is compelled to take a plunge it is no use 
standing shivering on the brink, and if there is no 
possibility of avoiding a sacrifice it had better be 
made at once.” 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 159 

“ I entirely agree with you, my dear friend, I entirely 
agree with you ; not that Alice will be in any* way 
sacrificed by her marriage. By uniting herself with 
me she will secure a most affectionate and loving hus- 
band, and one who, if not overburdened with this 
world’s goods, is, at any rate, the heir to a peerage. I 
really think that she could not have done better. A 
wiser marriage, nor one in which matters were more 
evenly balanced, I have never heard or read of.” 

“ I am glad you are satisfied,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ Satisfied ! ” echoed Malloret. “ I am more than 
satisfied, and I promise you that in three months’ time 
you shall hear from your daughter’s own lips that she 
has every cause for contentment.” 

“We shall see,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ And now, as to the date of the marriage,” he re- 
peated. “ When can it take place ? ’ ' 

“ Whenever you like.” 

“ In a fortnight, or a month ? ” 

“ As I said before, the sooner the better.” 

“ Very well,” said the Captain ; “ let us say in a 
fortnight.” 

“ As you please,” said Mrs. Maroni. 

“ I am the happiest man in all England. You have 
taken a load of anxiety off my heart.” 

“ Well, I must be going now,” said Mrs. Maroni. 
“ Your landlady has strange notions as to the propriety 
of your receiving visits from ladies.” 

“ Damn my landlady ! ” 

“ No, no, pray don’t. But I won’t detain you any 
longer at present, although there is a good deal for us 
to discuss. If you are not better engaged, come and 
dine witl\ me at Albemarle Street at eight this evening, 


160 


A DAUGHTBIi^S SACBIFICB. 


and we can talk over the settlements and enter into the 
necessary arrangements. I don’t suppose there will be 
much difficulty in coming to an understanding.” 

“ None whatever; I am sure I can count on your 
geaerosity.” 

“ I shall do my duty to my daughter,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “ I have done so from the day she was born, 
and I shall do so till the end. Good-morning.” 

“ Well, good-morning, if 3'ou must be going. Ex- 
pect me punctually at eight.” 

And then Captain Malloret saw the woman whom 
he considered his victim off the premises, and declining 
to enter into any explanation with Mrs. Potter, who 
pelted him with inquiries as to his late visitor, he ad- 
journed to a neighboring restaurant that he had been 
in the habit of frequenting when in funds, and ordered 
a pint of champagne of the choicest vintage that its cel- 
lars boasted, in order to drink success to his precious 
scheme now apparently about to be brought to a prom- 
ising conclusion. 


A DAUGnmn'S SACRIFICE. 


161 


CHAPTER XX. 

Harold’s attitude. 

Since her mother had left Cornwall Alice had re- 
mained in the same state of dazed stupor wliich had 
seized her when first she was told of Kingston’s death. 
In vain had her brother tried to rouse her, and by every 
means in his power distract lier from the terrible grief 
which had blighted her life. Of course he was in com- 
plete ignorance of wdiat had really taken place, and so 
it was that the awkward phrases of consolation he 
offei’ed his sister were utterly inadequate to deal with 
the crushing blow the poor girl had received. 

When Mrs. Maroni returned home, Harold met her 
at the station, and by the serious expression on his 
face she saw at once that he had bad news to give her 
of her daughter. He told his mother that he consid- 
ered Alice seriously ill, and that it would not surprise 
him if her reason gave way under the shock of King- 
ston’s death. Then Mrs. Maroni, who had felt most 
uncomfortable at having to tell her son of the arrange- 
ments that she had made for Alice’s marriage, saw that 
this would be a favorable opportunity to broach the 
subject. 

“ There is only one thing to save her,” she said ; 
“ she mu^t marry at once.” 

Harold looked at his mother in utter bewilderment. 

Alice will never marry,” he said. “ Her whole life 
is buried in that poor fellow’s grave.” 


162 


A T>AUGTTTETl'> f^ACP.TFTCE. 


Mrs. Maroiii hesitated. It was most difficult to 
explain to him that Malloret, whom they all disliked, 
had proposed for Alice’s hand, and that she had taken 
upon herself to accept his proposal on Alice’s behalf. 
However, the plunge must be made, and the threatened 
scandal averted ; and having conquered the repugnance 
she herself had previously entertained when the question 
of the marriage was first mooted, she must now make 
others conquer it. 

“ I don’t know if you noticed that Captain Malloret 
paid her a good deal of attention when he was here,” 
she began nervously ; and then she paused. 

Harold smiled, and said contemptuously : “We all 
disliked Malloret, mother, and I am sure that Alice 
would be the first to declare her dislike.” 

Then Mrs. Maroni went at it boldly. 

“ In any case he has proposed to me for her,” she 
said, “ and I have told iiim I will do my best to gain 
her consent.” 

“ You cannot be serious,” and Harold. “ Alice would 
not dream of marrying him. In the first place he is 
much too old for her, and then, too, I am sure that for 
years she will think of no one but Dick.” 

“ I must try my best,” said Mrs. Maroni wearily. “It 
may be the means of saving her life. He is not alto- 
gether a desirable partly I admit, but he is a gentleman 
and heir to a title, and having sown and reaped his 
wild oats, he may turn out a good husband.” 

She said the words falteringly and without any con- 
viction. She knew in her heart of hearts that the man 
to whom she was giving her daughter was a scoundrel, 
and that Alice could have no possible prospect of hap- 
piness with him ; but anything was better than her being 


A D A r/G TITER'S SACRIFICE. 


163 


doomed to a life of wretchedness such as she herself 
had experienced — a life of shame and terror of being 
found out, tlie feeling that by one false step you had 
lost all right to the society of decent people, and were 
an object of scorn to be pointed at by every person who 
accidentally discovered your secret. 

“ You will never gain her consent,” said Harold. “ It 
is the wildest idea I have ever heard of ; and I must say 
I marvel atmy clever mother proposing such a scheme.” 

“ It is the only one I can think of,” said Mrs. Maroni. 
And then as they were nearing the house she added, 
“ You must leave me alone with her. I will speak to 
her at once and see how she takes it.” 

When Harold heard that his sister had consented to 
marry Malloret he was even more surprised than when 
his mother first made the suggestion to him. 

“ It is incredible,” he said. “ What can you have 
said to her ? ” 

“ I used every argument in my power,” answered 
Mrs. Maroni, who felt quite unequal to making an 
explanation, “ Of course, she was obdurate at first, 
but I told her it was the only thing to save her reason, 
and that no amount of regrets or weeping would bring 
her dead lover to life again, and that an absolute 
change of scene and surroundings was imperative for 
her.” 

Then, later on, Harold questioned his sister, and was 
surprised to see that she had in a great measure thrown 
off that dangerous lethargy which she had shown dur- 
ing her mother’s absence in London. She seemed to 
have entirely changed, to have suddenly become a 
woman in place of the heart-broken girl he had seen a 


]64 ^ BAUGITTEIVS SACRIFICE. 

few hours since. The fact was that now that she heard 
the marriage would really take place, that Malloret 
had remained obdurate in exacting her hand as the 
price of his silence, Alice had nerved herself for the 
worst, and made up her mind to be brave. She knew 
that all happiness had gone from her own life, but for 
the sake of her dearly-loved brother she would try and 
hide from him the full extent of her sacrifice. 

When Harold asked her if she loved, or thought she 
could love, Malloret, she smiled a sad smile and shook 
her head and said that he knew she could never love 
any one but the man who had met his death in the cruel 
river. And then adopting her mother’s line of deceit 
and always under the dread that Harold might be sus- 
picious as to her sudden consent, she argued that as her 
mother had all her life sacrificed herself to them and 
had never had a tliought but for their welfare, and that 
as she earnestly wished that this marriage should take 
place, she would do her duty and obey her. Harold 
marvelled and was but half convinced, but still there 
was nothing to be done. He had heard his sister say 
with her own lips that she was ready to marry Captain 
Malloret, and wished the marriage to take place as soon 
as possible ; and all that he could do was to be aston- 
ished and wish his sister happiness in a doubtful sort 
of way. 

In the evening Mrs. Maroni sat down and wrote to 
Captain Malloret. She told him that she had gained 
her daughter’s consent, not, however, without consider- 
able difficulty. Still the consent was gained; and that 
was everything. “She mourns a little for Mr. King- 
ston,” she said. “They had a sort of boy and girl 
flirtation, which I daresay would have ripened into 


A DAUGHTJEB'S SACRIFICE. 165 

something like love if the unhappy young man had 
lived. However, one cannot speculate on what might 
have been. You have our joint consents, and I suppose 
that you had better come here for a few days and pay 
us a visit. It is necessary that you should know each 
other better before binding yourselves together for life, 
and if you will let me know upon which day you will 
arrive, 1 will send to meet you at the station.” 

There was a lurking triumph in her eyes as she 
wrote this letter. As she closed it and put on the 
stamp, she said to herself, “ Thank goodness, Stephen 
Malloret, we shall soon be quits.” 


166 


A DAUGIITEIVS SACJIIFICE. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING. 

When Captain Malloret received Mrs. Maroni’s letter 
lie felt that his triumph was complete. At length he 
was going to resume his proper position in the world, 
and by the most desirable means possible — a young and 
beautiful wife and plenty of money. What more could 
he wish for ? Nothing. And in his own vanity he felt 
that the reward he was reaping was only his just due. 
He had had a long spell of bad luck, but at last the 
clouds were breaking, and he saw before him a horizon 
clear and promising. His debts would all be paid, and 
be would be free once more. He would have no more 
Potters to worry him ; and, to add to his satisfaction, 
he read in the morning paper that his uncle, the Earl 
of Kingsborough, was dangerously ill. 

“ After all,” he thought to himself, “ why should I 
go through life persecuted by duns and cut by every- 
body? I have only outspent my income, and that’s 
not a crime which deserves life-long punishment.” His 
conscience passed over many little incidents in his 
career, which most of his former acquaintances would 
liave characterized as more than shady, and he only 
admitted to himself that he had been unlucky. He 
had backed wrong horses and made unfortunate specu- 
lations, and he had suffered for his folly. Now, thanks 
to the cleverness that he had displayed in his encounters 
with Mrs. Maroni, he had put an end to all that. His 


A DAUGHTEirS SACIilFICE. 167 

uncle was probably dying, and instead of coming into 
an empty title with no money to keep it up, he would 
have a charming countess to share his honors and plenty 
of money to pay off the large sums he had borrowed on 
his reversion. All seemed bright to him on this partic- 
ular morning, and it was with every feeling of pride 
and satisfaction that he determined to interview his 
landlady and bid her an eternal farewell. Captain 
Malloret informed the gushing widow at breakfast that 
lie wished to see her alone at the termination of that 
meal, and Mrs. Potter trembled as she wondered what 
new shock might be in store for her. The twins re- 
mained silent. They had watched him narrowly all the 
morning, and they felt that there was mischief in the 
air. His high spirits and reckless jokes only too well 
foreboded a catastrophe of a crushing nature when he 
asked to see Mrs. Potter alone — laying great stress on 
the word alone. They now thought their fears were to 
be speedily realized, and it was another grudge that 
they nursed against him when they learnt that they 
were not to be present at the interview he was to have 
with their mother. 

Malloret did not attempt to beat about the bush with 
his long-suffering landlady. He knew his power, and 
determined to make use of it. As soon as “ Mariar ” 
had cleared away the breakfast things and the twins 
had been despatched to their lessons, he said : 

“ Mrs. Potter, I am about to leave you — forever. I 
am going to be married.” 

Mrs. Potter opened her mouth as if about to speak, 
but words refused to come to her assistance, and she 
remained gasping. 

“Yes,” continued Malloret j “I have taken the ex- 


1G8 


A JJyll/GHTmi^S SACJilFICIi:. 


cellent advice you gave me some time ago. I have 
proposed, and I have been accepted. It only remains 
for me to thank you for your unswerving kindness and 
for your patience in waiting so long for your bill, and 
to assure you that within a month you will be paid 
every farthing I owe you.” 

Mrs. Potter still gasped, the joy of having lier bill 
paid in full being so cruelly mitigated by the announce’ 
ment of her lodger’s approaching marriage, that she 
still felt unequal to give vent to her feelings in words. 
At last she stammered forth. 

“ It is to that hussy who called here the other day I ” 

Malloret could not help smiling. The idea of the 
stately Mrs. Maroni being called a hussy by the vulgar 
Mrs. Potter was too much for his gravity. 

You have never seen the lady I am about to marry,” 
said he ; “ and I have not been in the habit of receiving 
‘ hussies ’ during the time I have lived in your house.” 

Then he proceeded to be more explanatory, and con- 
descended to tell Mrs. Potter that his late visitor was 
his future mother-in-law, and that his bride-elect had a 
large fortune. There would be no longer any occasion 
for her to trust — her period of trust was finished. He 
would pay her as soon as the settlements were made, 
and then he pointed to tlie paragraph in the newspaper 
which spoke of his uncle’s illness. 

“ You see I am altogether in luck’s way,” he contin- 
ued ; and Mrs. Potter heaved a sigh and declared that 
men always were in luck’s way, and that it was only 
lone widows like herself who put their trust in deceiv- • 
ing men and found out their mistake when it was too 
late. 

Malloret then advised her to follow his example. He 


A DA UG II TEWS SAC HI FILE. 


169 


reminded her that she had told him of the many offers 
she had received since the late Mr. Potter’s death, and 
he strongly urged her to accept one of them without 
further delay. 

After that there was nothing further to be said. He 
wrote to Mrs. Maroni and told her that he would be at 
Pencarvoii the next day, and his last hours in London 
he spent far from the worries of Clan William Terrace. 

The twins were up betimes to see him off the next 
morning, and gave him sarcastic congratulations as 
they bade him good-bye. Theresa wished him much 
happiness, and regretted that she could not offer him a 
wedding present, adding with great malice that pei haps 
when “ ma” received his promised check she would be 
able to do so. Augustus was less spiteful, and contented 
liimself by wringing a promise from the captain that 
when he came into his “ estate” he would invite him 
there to shoot. Alone Mrs. Potter’s regrets were 
sincere. As she pressed Malloret’s hand for the last 
time, the tears came into her eyes, and she feebly sobbed 
that if he was not happy with his wife, and ever wanted 
a home and a welcome, he would know wliere to find 
them. Malloret, villain as he was, could not help being 
touched by the poor woman’s kindness, and his final 
sight of the family left him with a more favorable im- 
pression than he. had ever entertained of them. 

In the evening Malloret was at Pencarvon, and had 
a long talk with Mrs. Maroni about his future life. 
His mother-in-law elect was all smiles and graciousness. 
She Bjlso had seen the paragraph concerning his uncle’s 
illness, and for the moment cherished a hope that it 
might make some difference in Ids matrimonial project 
with Alice. But he told her frankly that he had 


170 


A uA[/a/n[E;ii\s sac/ufwf. 


anticipated every penny that he would otherwise have 
come into at his uncle’s death, and that all that he would 
inherit would be an empty title. Mrs. Maroni re- 
assured him by saying that the fortune which she pro- 
posed to give her daughter would amply suffice for 
their wants. 

Then Malloret became more familiar, and inquired 
what the exact sum was that she proposed to give. Mrs. 
Maroni said : 

“ I am a woman of business in all things, as you 
know, and the money I give will be strictly settled on 
your children. You will have a good income, but there 
will be no capital for you to squander.” 

“ I shall be quite content to have an income,” laughed 
Malloret. “ It is so long since I have had one that it 
will have the double charm to me of affluence and 
novelty.” 

“ If Alice had married a man with any money I 
should have given her twenty thousand pounds,” said 
Mrs. Maroni; “ but as you are absolutely penniless, and 
will probably shortly have to keep up a title, I will 
settle forty thousand pounds upon her and allow her 
an extra five hundred pounds a year out of what 
Monsieur de Tesles gives me.” 

Malloret declared that nothing could be fairer or 
more generous, and indeed he was profuse in his thanks. 

“ It is thoroughly understood,” said Mrs. Maroni, 
“ that the forty thousand pounds is settled on any 
children born after your marriage.” 

“ I quite understand that,” said Malloret, “ and I 
am thankful that it should be so. I shall be out of the 
way of temptation myself, and any little beggars that 
come after me will be mercifully provided for.’.’ 


. A Dyi UGH TEWS SACltlFICE. 171 

Mrs. Maroni was delighted at the clever way in 
which she had managed things. She had feared that 
he might want to have money given to him outright to 
pay off sundry debts, but he liad made no such demand 
— tlie fact being that he knew he was marrying into a 
rich family, and that he held his mother-in-law under 
his thumb and could make her open her purse-strings 
whenever he thought proper to do so. 

After the business details had been completed he 
asked her if she thought Alice would ever care for him, 
and what means Mrs. Maroni had used to induce her 
daughter to consent to the marriage. Mrs. Maroni was 
very brief on this point, and answered that the girl was 
heartwhole ; she had no experience of the world and 
had seen but few men. Mrs. Maroni had told her that 
Malloret was a great friend of her father’s, and that if 
there was a slight disparity in their ages it was a fault 
on the right side. 

Malloret was content to accept this explanation. In 
fact he scarcely listened to it ; he was thinking all the 
time how clever he had been and what a particularly 
fortunate meeting it was when he saw Helen de Tesles 
in Bond Street after an interval of fifteen years. The 
only thing which made him at all nervous was the pres- 
ence of Harold. Alice’s brother had greeted him 
coldly — almost rudely — and it was very evident that 
the match did not meet with his approval. But, after 
all, that could not be helped. He looked upon Harold 
as a young cub who would learn better manners in 
time, and he trusted to Mrs. Maroni’s unerring clever- 
ness to smooth away the difficulties. In his first inter- 
view with Alice it became apparent to him at once that 
Mrs. Maroni’s arguments and comments must have 


172 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


been very forcible to induce the girl to accept him. 
She was iciness itself in her manner, and not only in- 
difference, but positive dislike was displayed in every- 
tliing she said. It was useless to think of making love 
to such a statue, and he abandoned the attempt at 
once. When first he touched nervously on the ques- 
tion Alice replied : 

“ My mother wishes me to marry you, and I will 
obey her, but let us leave love out of the question, 
please.” 

Malloret shrugged his shoulders. In reality he cared 
no more about the girl than she did for him. She was 
young, and certainly pretty, and had plenty of money. 
They could be perfectly happy without love, he argued. 
He must look upon it as a mariage de convenance — such 
a one as is made every day in France, and wliich inva- 
riably turns out happier than a runaway love match. 
Still, it was necessary that there should be some kind 
of love making. The girl looked pale and worried, 
more like a corpse than a bride-elect, thought Malloret, 
but still he persisted in his wooing, and walked about 
the grounds with her while her mother was doing her 
best to reconcile Harold to the strangeness of the situa- 
tion^ In the evening the two men smoked together 
and played billiards, and Harold did his best to con- 
quer the dislike he felt for his future brother-in-law, 
and Malloret did everything in his power to assist him. 
The elder man made himself as agreeable to the 
younger as he possibly could, speaking in terms of en- 
thusiastic rapture of Alice and her mother, and he 
quite discarded the tone of bluster and cynicism which 
he had adopted on his former visit. Harold almost 
liked him at the end of two or three days. He was, so 


A nAUG/IT^B’S SACHTFICK 173 

iin obtrusive, and so kind to his mother, and he really 
seemed to worship Alice. Harold thought that per- 
haps he had misjudged him, and that after all his 
mother’s advice had been right. It was towards the 
end of the first week of his stay that there arrived the 
news of the death of his uncle. Lord Kingsborough 
had departed this life and Malloret was now a “ belted 
earl.” Neither Harold nor Alice appeared much af- 
fected at the news, and Malloret bore his grief with 
stoic equanimity. • Mrs. Maroni was the only person 
who really showed any emotion on the occasion. Her 
triumph would be more complete than ever. She was 
under the impression that Kingston’s child — if a boy — 
would be the next earl, and she was so delighted that 
she could only talk of the old man’s death all day. 

On the morrow Malloret left to attend the funeral, 
and Alice appeared to feel intense relief at his depart- 
ure. Her mother could not help noticing it, and she 
asked her if the man were really so utterly distasteful 
to her. 

“ You must know that he is,” replied Alice. “ But 
I shall perform my part of the bargain, and I have 
determined not to go back upon my word.” 

“ Your bargain will be a very short one,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “ Yon will leave him at the church door, or 
almost immediately afterwards.” 

Alice did not answer. She thought that fate had 
been very cruel to lier, but it was no use repining. She 
must be sacrificed rather than disgrace should be 
brought upon the mother and brother she so dearly 
loved. 

It was settled that as soon as Malloret returned tlie 
marriage preparations should commence. The fact of 


174 


A DAVGfmR^S SAOnrFTe:^. 


his uncle’s death would account for the ceremony 
being a private one, but there was no necessity for put- 
ting it off. The uncle and nephew had not been on 
speaking terms for some years, and an affectation of 
grief would only be ridiculous, so it was decided that 
the wedding should take place in London in a fort- 
night’s time. Harold was to give away his sister, and 
there were to be no bridesmaids and no festivities of 
any kind. Immediately after the wedding ceremony 
they would return to the hotel and have a partie carree 
breakfast, and then the bride and bridegroom would 
depart for Paris. At least this was Malloret’s proposal, 
and it appeared to meet with Mrs. Maroni’s entire ap- 
proval. She reserved to herself the surprise her enemy 
would experience at the few words she would say to 
him after the breakfast, and as to the trip to Pans, that 
would be rather doubtful after the news she had to tell 
him. But in the meantime he was quite at liberty to 
make his own arrangements, only she would have the 
last word after the ceremony had been performed. 


A BAUGIITEIVS SACniFlCE. 


175 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE WEDDING. 

The Maronis were in London a week before the 
wedding took place. There was plenty of shopping to 
be got through and several visits to the lawyers were 
paid before the settlements were finally signed. Lord 
Kingsborough made no difficulty in accepting Mrs. 
Maroni’s suggestion that the income of the <£40,000 
she was to settle on Alice should be paid to her abso- 
lutely. He felt so sure of his prey, so certain that 
whenever he wanted money he would only have to ask 
his wife for it, that he graciously acceded to all plans 
made by Mrs. Maroni. 

They were on excellent terms, these two ; all signs 
of the violent storms which had passed between them 
had disappeared. Helen was nursing her revenge, 
which she felt to be more than ever complete since the 
death of his uncle, and whenever Kingsborough touched 
upon this topic and chaffingly told Mrs. Maroni that 
her good luck pursued her in everything, and what 
had promised to be a bad marriage for her daughter had 
now turned into an almost brilliant one, she was quite 
ready to acquiesce, and to admit with apparent frank- 
ness that she had very possibly misjudged him. Alice, 
however, drd not share this view. Miss Maroni con- 
tinued to be cold and unsympathetic ; she could scarce- 
ly be decently civil to the man she was about to call 
her husband, and when her mother remonstrated with 


176 


A t>AVGHTmVS SACUlFtCE. 


her, she declared that she was powerless to alter her 
manner. Whenever she could escape from his presence 
she did so. She endeavored to be as mucli with her 
brother as possible, and together they visited the sights 
of London, none of which they had either of them ever 
seen. Mrs. Maroni made all possible excuses for her 
to Kingsborough. Slie enlarged on the great affection 
the brother and sister had for each other, and that it 
was only natural that they should wish to see as much 
as possible of each other prior to their separation. And 
then she continued, with some little touch of malice, 
that as Kingsbol’ough and Alice had all their lives to 
look forward to in close companionship, the bridegroom 
need not grudge the bride her last few days of freedom. 
Kingsborough quite agreed with this. He knew that 
it was not a marriage of love, and he laughed at the 
excuses which Mrs. Maroni prepared with so much 
elaboration. 

“ Your daughter does not love me,” he said. “ I 
have no illusion on the subject ; she may possibly do 
so in the future. I have conquered many hearts in my 
day, and I do not despair of conquering hers.” 

Mrs. Maroni smiled at the conceit of his remark, and 
could not refrain from saying : 

“ I suppose amongst your conquests you include Mrs. 
Potter?” 

Lord Kingsborough shuddered. 

“No,” he said, “ I do not count Mrs. Potter as a 
conquest ; I look upon her as a prolonged nightmare, 
a nightmare from which you have at length delivered 
me.” 

“ You are very ungrateful,” she said. 

“ I am not ungrateful to 5^u,” he answered. “ I think 


A DAUGHTER S SACRIFICE. 


177 


you have behaved nobly, and you will see what a model 
son-in-law I shall make you.” 

“ Yes, we shall see,” said Mrs. Marqni dryly. 

On another occasion Kingsborough asked her why 
de Tesles was not to be invited to the wedding. 

Mrs. Maroni replied that she could give no valid 
reason for inviting him, even. if he cared to come, which 
was doubtful. The wedding was to be a strictly pri- 
vate one, in consequence of old Lord Kingsborough’s 
death, and she could have no excuse for asking a 
stranger — which he must be to her children — to assist at 
the function. 

Alice had also asked her mother the same question. 
She had no desire to see the man wlio had treated her 
mother badly, but she thought it possible that he might 
wish to be present and insist on his right. 

Mrs. Maroni told her that he had no riglit. He was 
the father of her children, but they did not bear his 
name, and his presence would only be the cause of un- 
pleasant inquiries on the part of Harold. 

The wedding morning dawned dull and gloom}^, and 
when Alice looked out of the window she saw that a 
wretched drizzling rain was falling, well in keeping 
with lier own spirits. The marriage was performed at 
St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, by special license, and as the 
bride and bridegroom drove back to the hotel along 
Piccadilly they presented more the appearance of 
returning from a funeral than of two loving hearts just 
bound together in the holy bonds of wedlock. Alice 
wore everyday costume. She steadfastly refused to 
don the usual bride’s attire, and her mother had agreed 
that for so private an occasion it would have been alto- 
gether out of place. Harold was almost as silent and 


178 


A l)AUGJIT£:ii^S SACBIFICI:. 


depressed as his sister, and was glad when the whole 
thing was over, and at the prospect of returning to 
Pencarvon by the afternoon express. The champagne 
at the breakfast failed to raise the drooping spirits of 
the marriage party. Mrs. Maroni was nervous and 
absent ; she could only think of the scene that was in 
store for her with Kingsborough, and wonder which 
would be the most crushing way of telling him the 
truth. Alice was thankful that the worst part of the 
day had been got through, and that, thanks to her 
mother, she would in a few hours be free, free to think 
only of her dead love, and go somewhere far, far away 
from the man whom she had just sworn to love, honor 
and obey, and who in her heart she thoroughly loathed 
and despised. 

In vain Kingsborough attempted to be cheerful and 
to raise the pall of unutterable gloom which hung over 
the wedding breakfast. Harold paid no attention to 
him, and Mrs. Maroni listened absently to his would-be 
funny stories and generally managed to smile in the 
wrong place. Alice looked like a spectre-bride ; her 
husband thought her paleness was almost alarming, 
and her listlessness and languor boded ill for tlie 
approaching delights of the honeymoon. 

It was a relief to them all when Harold declared that 
his time was up, and that he must be off. to catch his 
train. For the first time that day, Mrs. Maroni showed 
some emotion as she wished her son good-bye. The 
future might still be dark and full of danger, and she 
almost broke down as she kissed him passionately and 
said in hysterical sobs that whatever happened she still 
had her darling son left to her. Harold was surprised 
at this outburst of feeling, but Mrs. Maroni begged 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


179 


him to leave at once, and turned away to the window 
to see the last of his handsome face as his cab bore him 
'rapidly away in the direction of the South Western 
Station. 

Then Alice went to change her dress, and Mrs. 
Maroni and Lord Kingsborough were left alone. 


180 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CHECK AND CHECKMATE. 

It was an awful moment for Mrs. Maroni. She felt 
herself trembling all over, but she determined not to 
flinch, and to spare no one in her exulting moment of 
revenge. 

Kingsborough had sat down at a table and was writ- 
ing some letters, and appeared to take no notice of the 
fact that Helen was in the room, and this gave her 
time to collect herself and prepare what she had to say. 
Mrs. Maroni idly took up the Moniing Post to give her- 
self a countenance, and after appearing to scan its con- 
tents for a few moments, she looked up and said : 

“ There are a few words I should like to say to you, 
Lord Kingsborough, before you leave, and when you 
have finished your letters please let me know, as I think 
my communication may be interesting to you.” 

Her voice trembled as she began, but she soon re- 
covered herself, and laying down her paper looked him 
coolly in the face. 

Kingsborough finished an address he was writing, 
and turning round with a bland smile, he said : 

“ I am all attention, my dear madam.” 

“ It is difficult for me to begin,” she said, “ but as 
you are such a thorough man of the world you will prob- 
.ably be better able to understand what I have to say 
than would a man who knew less of the weakness and 
foibles of human nature.” 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 181 

“ I suppose it is the usual homily from the mother- 
in-law,” he said laughing. “ I imagined that you were 
going to spare. me such a discourse, especially as that 
sort of thing has been played out in opera-bouffes.” 

“It is not a homily,” said Mrs. Maroni. “I am 
afraid homilies would be lost upon you ; at any rate I 
don’t mean to waste my breath by trying the effect of 
one. No, it is more with the past that I have to deal 
than with the future.” 

“ I thought we were to let bygones be bygones,” he 
said ; “ you told me so at Pencarvoii.” 

“ It will depend upon you whether they are to be 
forgotten,” she answered. “ I am afraid I shall have 
to speak at some length, and before I come to the end 
you may possibly be tired ; but at least I will make my 
statement as short as I can, and I promise that I will 
do my best to interest you.” 

“ You are most enigmatical,” he said ; “ you talk 
like a soothsayer. However, pray proceed, for, as they 
say in the dramas, ‘ your story strangely interests me.’ ” 

“ I hope this one may,” she said dryly ; and then she 
began : “ When you proposed for my daughter, you 
made no attempt to convince me that you were in love 
with her. You coveted her money, and you threatened 
me tliat if I did not coerce her into marrying you, you 
would reveal my miserable past to, my unsuspecting 
children.” 

“ Pray don’t travel over old forgotten ground,” he 
said. 

“ Please don’t interrupt me,” she said. “ I must do 
60 to make my story complete. The advantages you 
liad to offer were decidedly few, but you knew the 
affection I bore my children, and you successfully 


182 


A DAUGHTER' S SACRIFICE. 


traded on it. But — there is always a but in these 
cases — I had defied you and told you to do your worst, 
and you must surely have been surprised when I sud- 
denly turned round and gave my consent.” 

“ I was certainly agreeably surprised,” he said, “ but 
I knew you to be a clever woman, and I thought you 
had realized the advantage that it would be to you for 
your daughter to marry me. I am of good birth; your 
daughter — as I told you at Pencarvon — is lucky to 
marry a man bearing an old title. My only crime is 
poverty, and that crime your liberality has effaced.” 

“ Exactly. We will pass over the black-mailing, the 
scoundrel’s threats, the shameless dishonesty of it all, 
and merely look upon it as a mariage de eonvenance. 
That it was one, in every sense of the word, you will 
presently see.” 

“What is all this leading up to?” said Kings- 
borough impatiently. 

“ It is leading up to my capital point,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “ You know enough of diplomacy to be aware 
that ruse must be met by ruse, and that when men set 
traps for others, they often fall into them themselves.” 

“ Oh, damn it all, Helen, what are you driving at?” 
cried Kingsborough rising and walking towards her. 

“ You have often admitted that I am not a fool ! ” 
she continued unmoved. 

“ You are talking like one now,” he answered rudely. 

“ I don’t think so,” she said ; “ and I fancy that you 
will retract that statement by-and-by. We will admit, 
for the sake of argument, that I am not a fool ; how, 
then, do you account for my allowing Alice to marry 
you ? You, a black-mailer, a man with no reputation, 
cut by all London, and living on the shame of a de- 


A DA UGH mu' S SACRIFICE. 


183 


graded woman I I mean myself of course. It was not 
the brilliancy of your title that tempted me, it was not 
fear for myself. Shall I tell you what it was ? ” 

“ I wish you would leave off talking nonsense,” was 
all he said. 

Mrs. Maroni laughed. “ You will see if it is non- 
sense,” she said, and then she continued, still in her 
cold, measured tones, “ you are proud of your birth and 
title, are you not? ” 

Of course I am,” he answered ; “ why should I not 
be?” 

“ Well; it is an excellent old name, and up to your 
time has always been honorably borne, as far as I 
know.” 

“ You are very severe,” he said. 

“ Fortunately,” she continued, “ it is just possible 
that after your time it may continue to be so borne, 
as — and here comes in what I have been gradually lead- 
ing up to — it is extremely improbable that your heir 
will h^e any of your blood in his veins.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Kingsborough, at last 
becoming interested. 

“ I cannot put it plainer,” answered Mrs. Maroni. 

Then there was a pause. Kingsborough’s brain set 
to work, and he imagined that she meant that Alice 
would not live with him, and that, although she was 
now his wife by law, she would refuse to be so in any- 
thing but name. 

“ You must really be more clear,” he said, and he 
sat down opposite her. 

“ I am sorry your intelligence is so limited,” she 
said, “as it is most painful to me to have to explain 
what you might yourself have guessed. However, as 


184 


A UAUGHTKIi'S SACIilFICK 


you wish me to continue I will do so. You noticed, I 
think, that a visitor at my house, Mr. Kingston, paid 
Alice a great deal of attention. I had not thought 
much about it myself, but then you see you are so 
much cleverer than I ; you see so much farther — at any 
rate, you did notice it, and spoke to me on the sub- 
ject. You were right and I was wrong.” Then Mrs. 
Maroni got up, and walking straight up to him, she 
said with a fiendish glare in her eyes : “ So right were 
you, that Geoffrey Kingston, who lies buried in Pen- 
carvon churchyard, is the father of your unborn heir, 
and in marrying my daughter to you, I have merely 
consulted my own convenience. I have closed your 
slanderous mouth, and punished you for the agony you 
have been causing me.” 

“ You devil ! ” was all that Kingsborough could ejac- 
ulate. 

Then Mrs. Maroni burst forth in the full flush of her 
triumph. 

“Yes, a devil who has outwitted you, and touched 
you on the only sensible chord you possess. Your 
game was a charming one, simple and manly ! Any- 
thing can be done by threats, and God knows what 
might have happened if I had not bravely faced the 
worst and told my daughter my own story. She knows 
everything — all my past life, all the anguish you have 
made me endure. And when she confessed to me that 
she had privately married Geoffrey Kingston, and I 
l ealized that she had done so in a false name, and that 
therefore her marriage was not legal, she saw at once 
the advantage to be gained by marrying you. Your 
slanders can no longer touch us, and my daughter’s 
reputation is saved I ” 


A DAUGUTEWS SACRIFICE. 


185 


Lord Kingsborough was completely staggered, he 
scarcely knew what to say. The whole past explained 
itself so easily to him now. What a fool he had been 
to be taken in by this calculating woman. She stood 
there before him revelling in his discomfiture, and he 
was beside himself with rage. At last he stammered 
out : 

“ You are a pretty pair, you and your bastard 
daughter ! ” 

“ Yes, we only wanted you to make the family com- 
plete,” sneered Mrs. Maroni quite unmoved. 

He was dazed, completely stunned by tlie news, and 
could think of nothing to say. Abuse was of no use ; 
he felt he could strangle her. 

“ And now .that you know all,” continued his mother- 
in-law, “ perhaps we had better discuss the future. 
What do you intend to do ? ” 

“ Do ? ril divorce her,” he thundered. 

“ You can’t,” said Mrs. Maroni quietly. 

“ I’ll never live with her,” he said. 

“ She has no desire that you should,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “As you have probably seen she hates the 
very sight of you.” 

And then a gleam of hope lit up his face, and Kings- 
borough said as a gentle feeler : 

“ And her brother, did he lend his precious aid to 
this delightful scheme ? ” 

Mrs. Maroni did not answer. It was the one thing 
she dreaded, that Harold’s name might be drawn into 
the discussion. 

“ I presume by your silence that he is in ignorance of 
the plot? ” said Kingsborough. 


186 


A jjALrGJJTi:irs sachifici!:, 


“ Alice knows everything,” said Mrs. Maroni ; “but 
it was unnecessary for me to tell her brother.” 

“ Exactly,” said Malloret with a latent look of 
triumph in his eyes. “ It was altogether unnecessary. 
And now that you liave played your last card, and had 
your laugh, I think it is about time that I had a look in. 
I have still a trump left in my hand, and I mean to 
play it.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Mrs. Maroni. 

“ I mean that I shall telegraph to Harold to come up 
at once, and that I shall explain the whole situation to 
him ; and be guided by his advice.” 

“ You would not do that,” said Mrs. Maroni faintly. 

.“Would not!” he echoed. “You will see; women 
are very clever, and you are a brilliant example of your 
sex, but even you have over-readied yourself. In 
twelve hours H-arold shall know that his mother is a liar 
and a wanton, and that his sister is little better than 
her mother. When he ascertains that he has no name, 
and that he has all along lived on the generosity of his 
mother’s lover, perhaps he will be a trifle more civil to 
his brother-in-law— at any rate we shall see.” 

This was a crushing blow for which Mrs. Maroni was 
totally unprepared. In her eagerness to save her 
daughter, and at the same time humiliate her enemy, 
slie had overlooked the fact that in his rage and desper- 
ation he might still play his vat tout of informing 
Harold of the true state of things. It had been a ghastly 
oversight, but still she clung to a wild hope that what 
he said was only a temporary outburst of anger ; and 
that by persuasion, and possibly money, she might still 
av^ert the catastrophe. She determined not to show her 
fear, and kept up her brave demeanor as she said : 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


187 


“You forget that all the money I have settled, has 
been settled on Alice, and that were you to act in any 
way inimical to me, you would not touch a penny of 
it.” 

“I don’t want your money,” he answered. “I want 
to let your son know the trick that has been played 
upon me, and we will see after that what is to be done.” 

“ You could not be such a brute,” said Mrs. Maroni, 
in a low voice. 

Lord Kingsborough laughed aloud. “ Upon my word 
you are too simple,” he said. “ I am to be played upon 
by you and your daughter, to be made the victim in a 
disgraceful and shameful marriage, and all the fun is to 
be on your side ! Oh, dear, no — there must be a family 
meeting, a eonseil de famille., as they say in France, and 
Harold must be the first one bidden to it.” 

“ Harold shall never know my story,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “ I would kill myself first.” 

“Then you had better decide as to the least painful 
way of doing so at once,” he said coolly, “ for know it 
he will within the next few hours.” 

“ You cannot mean what you say,” wailed Mrs. 
Maroni. “ The money shall be yours, every' penny of 
it ; you need never see Alice or me again.” 

“ I don’t intend to,” he said, “ after Harold has been 
told the sort of woman you are; but he must be told 
first.” And then he added : “ I don’t think it is any 
use to prolong this discussion. I am going out, and I 
have no wish to see you again till 1 meet you in the 
presence of your son.” 

With these parting words he took up his hat and 
walked slowly out of the room. 

Mrs. Maroni remained stunned. In all her calcula- 


188 


A DAUGHTBB^S SACBIFICE. 


tions she had not counted on this terrible change. 
What could she do ? How could she avert a meeting 
between the two men ? She had vaguely thought, 
whenever the idea occurred to her, that perhaps one 
day he might round on her by threatening to tell 
Harold, but that money might silence him, and she had 
even determined that she would make any sacrifice 
rather than Harold should be told of their dreadful 
plot. But he had refused money — refused it con- 
temptuously, and longed only for revenge; a revenge 
that would be so terrible that death alone could give 
her any escape from it. 

She thought of Harold, of his engagement to Miss 
Perry, of all his hopes in life blighted, and the room 
seemed to reel round her as she wondered what he 
would say when he learnt that he was nameless, and 
that his sister had conceived and with her mother’s 
assistance executed this dreadful plot. There was no 
possible means of stopping Lord Kingsborough now. 
Even if she started herself for Cornwall, and prevented 
the two men meeting, he might still write to her son. 
What could she do? She determined at length to join 
Alice and confide in her, telling her the terrible fix 
they were in, and having a vague hope that perhaps 
she might be able to suggest some way out of the dif- 
ficulty. 

But Alice gave her no consolation ; she was power 
less to suggest anything. She knew nothing of the 
world, and could only shed bitter tears and wring her 
hands. Surely a strange end to a wedding, and one 
which promised but little happiness for the chief actors 
in this uncanny performance. 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


189 


"" CHAPTER XXIV. 

kingsborough’s revenge. 

Lord Kingsborough lost no time in carrying out 
his threat. When he left Mrs. Maroni he walked 
straight to a telegraph office in Piccadilly and sent a 
message to Harold, urging him to return to town at 
once. He was so completely lost to every feeling but 
that of hatred and fury, that he did not even think of 
the consequences of his action. He had been duped, 
gulled, and made a complete fool of by two designing 
women, and it was now his turn to show them the sort 
of man they had conspired against. Mrs. Maroni 
had been deuced sharp, but he flattered himself that he 
was even a trifle sharper than she. He was proud of 
liis title, and it gave him a certain feeling of confi- 
dence when he reflected that he was risking a large 
fortune by declaring war with his mother-in-law. After 
sending the telegram he walked moodily about until 
it was time to dine, and then, after eating a most 
recherehS repast and drinking copiously of champagne, 
he strolled into the Empire Theatre and spent a gener- 
ally festive evening. 

The night, which was a terrible one to Mrs. Maroni 
and her daughter, brought no reflection to him. He 
still thirsted for his revenge as he dressed himself the 
next morning, and carefully prepared the speeches 
which he knew would ruin Mrs. Maroni and strike 
despair to her son. 

After breakfast Mi^. Maroni sought him out, and 


100 


A DAUGTTTER\S SACRTFICE. 


again made a passionate appeal to him for mercy, but 
he would not listen to her. In vain she tempted him 
with money, in vain she cajoled and took every line 
she could think of ; Lord Kingsborough remained 
obdurate. 

“You have had your victory,” was all he said ; “ I 
must have mine.” 

Mrs. Maroni at length saw that it was useless to per- 
severe. Her son must know all — that son to whom she 
had sacrified everything, and allowed Alice to sacrifice 
everything, that son for whom she had willingly immured 
herself in the country for fifteen long years, that son 
who worshipped her as she worshipped him. A whole 
life’s work would be undone by one fell stroke from 
this despicable villain. It was too horrible — would he 
have no pity for her ? Was there not one gleam of 
honor left in his composition ? To all her appeals he 
had remained dumb, and she knew that she must face 
the worst, that Harold would be told her early life, 
and she could only think how he would bear it. He 
would not credit it, she knew ; he would give Kings- 
borough the lie direct ; but she felt that she had no 
longer the power to play the part she had played all 
her life. If her son questioned her she must tell him 
the truth. He must be her judge ; and she could only 
pray that he would be a lenient one. As the time ap- 
proached for his arrival she became terribly nervous. 
Over and over again the thought occurred to her of 
braving it out, of denying every one of her enemy’s ac- 
cusations and telling Harold that it was only a new 
form of chantage that he had employed to get more 
money from her. But this, upon reflection, appeared 
utterly hopeless ; Alice would tell the truth, and there 


A DAirGff7'i;n^s sacbificf. 


191 


was nothing to be done but to plead extenuating cir- 
cumstances and hope that his great love for her might 
make him her champion instead of her judge. 

She begged Alice not to be present at the interview 
between the two men, and Alice had willingly ac- 
quiesced in this arrangement. Mrs. Maroni had even 
gone further, and had written to L^on de Tesles, ex- 
plaining the situation and begging that he would receive 
his daughter in Paris. It would be impossible for 
Alice to return to Cornwall, she declared, and she and 
Harold must do so ; that was, if her son still looked 
upon her with affection after the scene about to take 
place. Harold was to arrive at four o’clock, and his 
mother determined that she must see him before Kings- 
borough made his appearance. She would not touch 
upon the story of her life, but she would prepare him 
for the shock, and tell him that she hoped her early 
errors had been redeemed by the devotion she had al- 
ways shown her children. 

She had scarcely time to make these opening remarks 
when Kingsborough appeared, spruce and smiling, and 
eager to deal Mrs. Maroni what he considered her death- 
blow. 

Mrs. Maroni had told Harold enough for him to 
know that Lord Kingsborough’s errand was not a pleas- 
ant one, and that the communication which he had to 
make was one of a particularly awful nature. 

“ I have thought it only right, Mr. Maroni,” began his 
lordship, “ that as there are grave family questions to 
be discussed that you should be present at the discus- 
sion,” and then he went glibly on and told Harold of 
the shameless trick that had been played upon him by 
his mother and sister. 


192 A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 

Harold listened open-mouthed. At first he felt in- 
clined to order the man out of the room as he heard his 
mother and sister assailed, but the calm air of the 
speaker, and the bent, humiliated attitude of his mother 
proved to him that he had better listen on to the end. 
As Kingsborough concluded the story of his marriage 
with Alice, he said : 

“ I ought certainly to have been on my guard against 
your mother, knowing her as 1 did better than any 
man in London.” 

Then Harold was fairly roused. He had listened 
with shame to tlie story of his sister’s conduct, but 
against his mother he would not hear one word. He 
loved her as only sucli a mother could be loved, and 
Lord Kingsborough must be careful what he said. 

“We will leave my mother out of the question,” he 
said ; “ she acted for the best, even though in doing so 
she may have been ill-advised.” 

“ Unfortunately we cannot leave her out of the ques- 
tion,” said his brother-in-law. “ It was especially that 
you should see her in her true light that I summoned 
you here to-day.” 

“ Enough,” said Harold ; “ I see my mother in the 
way I choose to see her, and it concerns you in no 
way.” 

Mrs. Maroni breathed a sigh of relief, and shot one 
more imploring glance at Kingsborough, but he was 
not to be baulked of his prey, and continued: 

“Twenty years ago your mother was a dishonored 
woman, as your sister is in my judgment to-day, only 
she found no flat ready to marry her, and continued a 
life of vicious indulgence until she was satiated with it, 
and took her two precious bastards to the country.” 


A DAV’GRTBB^ff SACBIFICE 


193 


Mrs. Maroni uttered one despairing wail and hid her 
face in her hands, whilst Harold flew at Kingsborough 
like a tiger, and, seizing him by the throat, exclaimed : 

“ You lie, you cur ! Take back those lies before I 
cram them down your loathsome throat.” 

Mrs. Maroni sprang to her feet and separated the 
two men. 

“ It is not true,” she said, “at least, all he has said 
is not true. Listen to me, Harold, I will tell you the 
truth from beginning to end.” 

“ It is true — every word of it is true,” said Lord 
Kingsborough. “Ask her where her money comes 
from, the money on which you and your sister have 
been reared in luxury. Ask her where your father is 
buried ? ” — and then he laughed. “ Why, your father 
is Ldon de Tesles, and is living now in Paris, and 
allows his mistress <£5,000 a year, and that mistress is 
your mother.” 

Then Mrs. Maroni knew that all was over. Kings- 
borough had done his worst, and she saw the words 
strike home to Harold as he put his hand to his head 
and reeled to a seat. 

She was the first one to recover her presence of 
mind, and she said in a calm and steady voice : 

“ Have you said enough ? Is your revenge com- 
plete?” 

Kingsborough did not answer. He stood there 
fuming with rage, and began to feel rather angry with 
himself, now that all was over. 

“ I don’t wish to be hard on her,” he said presently, 
turning to Harold. “I daresay your mother will find 
some excuse for her conduct, but I think it only right 
that you should know the sort of woman — ” 


194 A BAUGHTETC S SACBIFICE. 

But Harold stopped him. “ I have but one feeling 
for my mother,” he said ; “ she has taught me to love 
and respect her, and as long as I live I shall continue 
to do so.” 

And then he pointed to the door. Kingsborough 
felt that it was useless to remain. He had had his 
moment of victory, but at present it scarcely looked 
like an overwhelming one. Still, he had left a strong 
element of discord between them, and he took up his 
hat with a malignant smile and said : 

“ Good-bye, Helen. I dare say we shall meet again 
some day,” and then, turning to Harold, he added, 

“ Good-bye, Mr. , I really don’t know your right 

name — ^you had better ask your mother to give you 
one,” and he was gone. 


A DAUGHmU'S SACBIFICK 


195 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Harold’s determination. 

There was an awkward silence between Mis. 
Maroni and her son as Lord Kingsborough left the 
room. Harold was pale and lie trembled violentl}*. 
He had scarcely, as yet, realized the full horror of what 
he had heard, but his feelings had evidently changed 
towards his mother. He avoided looking at her, and 
after nervously fidgeting about the room for a few 
minutes he said, in a tone which Mrs. Maroni scarcely 
recoofnized as his ; 

“ I think I will return to Cornwall this evening. 
What are you going to do, mother ? ” 

Mrs. Maroni told him that she must occupy herself 
with her daughter’s future. She would return to 
Cornwall in a few days, but before she did so she 
should have to settle as to Alice’s future life. At that 
moment she did not dare speak to him of his father. 
She w'ould have liked to tell him that it was probable 
that Alice would go to Paris, at any rate, for the pres- 
ent, but she did not dare to mention the name of L4on 
de Tesles in connection with her visit. 

She asked him if he would see his sister before he 
left, but Harold replied in the negative. His brain 
was in a whirl, and he felt unequal to a fresh scene. 
He must have time to consider matters and to make 
some plans. And then he thought of his engagement 
to Marian which, of course, would now have to be 


196 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


broken off. He could not continue engaged to a girl 
under the new circumstances. He had no name to 
offer her, and no fortune. One thing he had already 
decided, and that was to renounce all claim to the 
money of the man who had betrayed his mother. The 
parting was a cold one between these two. Mrs. 
Maroni was too nervous to make any demonstration 
of affection, and Harold was still too bewildered to be 
quite sure how to act. He did not even kiss her as 
she left the room to join Alice ; he stood moodily 
looking out of the window and Mrs. Maroni felt that 
her punishment was indeed more than she could bear 
as she gave her last despairing glance at his sorrow- 
stricken face. 

Harold reached “ The House ” early the next morn- 
ing, and on his journey he had made up his mind how 
he would act. He must first call on the Perrys, and 
explain to them as briefly as possible the misfortune 
which had befallen him. After that he would leave 
Cornwall forever. He was young and had all the 
world before him. He must work ; he must earn his 
own livelihood and be no longer dependent on the 
Frenchman’s charity. Upon one point he had firmly 
made up his mind ; he would not pain his mother by 
asking her any further questions. He felt that the 
story he had heard from Kingsborough’s venomous lips 
was in the main true. Indeed his mother had not at- 
tempted to deny it — she had said “ it is not all true,” but 
the chief facts she had not disputed. It was evident 
that she had not been married, and that their money 
came from an impure source. Then, too, there was the 
question of Alice. The two women he had been led to 
believe were the best and purest in the world were 


A DAUGHTETCS SACRIFICE, 


197 


both unworthy. It was too horrible ! There were 
moments when he doubted whether he would have the 
courage to encounter it all, and he began to think that 
perhaps it would be better to put a bullet into his head 
than to face the shame which surrounded him ; but 
youth overcame this feeling. It is hard to die at 
twenty-two when you feel full of life and strength, 
and so the revolver was put back into its case and 
Harold determined to pull himself together and make 
a clean breast of the situation to the Perrys. 

He called there the day after his return, and asked 
to see Mr. Perry alone. The interview was granted 
him, and he was shown into Mr. Perry’s study. It was 
difficult for him to begin, for his engagement had not 
been made public, and yet he did not wish to leave 
Pencarvon without giving some explanation of his de- 
parture. 

Mr. Perry was an easy enough man to deal with, and 
he naturally thought that the object of the young man’s 
visit was to make a formal demand in marriage for his 
daughter. He was, therefore, very much surprised 
when Harold began : 

“ I have come to wish you good-bye, Mr. Perry; I 
am leaving Pencarvon.” 

The old man looked up quickly. “ Not leaving for- 
ever, I presume ? Are you going to travel? ” 

“ I am leaving forever,” answered Harold. “ Cir- 
cumstances have occurred which make it impossible for 
me to remain here. It is extremely improbable that I 
shall ever see any of you again.” 

Then Mr. Perry showed genuine astonishment, and 
he waited for further particulars. 

“ You must know,” continued Harold, “ that your 


198 


A DAV’G/JTJSB^S SACRIFICE, 


daughter Marian has inspired me with the deepest love 
and affection for her. I may have been wrong, but I 
spoke to her on the subject, and I am sure she will tell 
you that my love was returned. But when I spoke to 
her thus I was under the impression that I had a name 
and a fortune to offer her. I find now that I have 
neither, and it is for this reason that I am going away. 
It is painful for me to explain all this, but I do not wish 
any one to be under the impression that I have acted 
dishonorably.” 

He was frightfully nervous as he stammered out the 
words, and kind-hearted old Mr. Perry felt grievously 
sorry for him. 

“ Dear — dear ! ” he said. “ Has your mother lost 
money ? Has she made unfortunate speculations ? ” 

“ My mother is still rich,” said Harold, “ but I have 
no right to any of her fortune — and, as I have just told 
you, I have no name.” 

“ Have you quarrelled with your mother ? ” said Mr. 
Perry, still in the dark as to what the young man 
meant. 

“ I have not quarrelled with my mother,” said Har- 
old, “and I hope I never shall, but she has brouglit me 
up in ignorance of the true facts of my birth. My 
mother has never been married to my father, and I in- 
tend henceforth to earn my own living, and not be de- 
pendent on the man who has refused me his name.” 

Then Mr. Perry gave vent to a prolonged whistle — 
the case was certainly serious. The mystery which 
had at first surrounded Mrs. Maroni, but which her 
long residence amongst them had almost made them 
forget, was now cleared up. She had no right to live 
there as Mrs. Maroni, to foist her children upon them 


A BAUGJlTBli'S SACmFTCK 


199 


Tinder assumed names. For the moment Mr. Perry 
felt very angry, and then his sense of justice and 
Harold’s haggard, woe-begone expression, softened him, 
and he said somewhat kindly : 

“ I am shocked and disturbed at the news I have 
just heard, but you have acted very properly in telling 
me all. I am sure my daughter returns your affection 
and it will be a blow to her that she can never see you 
again, but you have acted as a gentleman and a man 
of honor in letting me know the true facts of the case. 
Of course a marriage with Marian would be impossible, 
but you have, nevertheless, my sympathy, and I approve 
of your high-minded motive in wishing to be indepen- 
dent. If I can be of any service to you in finding you 
employment, Mr. Maroni, I will do so, as I fully ap- 
preciate your out-spoken frankness and the manner in 
which you have behaved.” 

Harold felt quite ready to break down. Reproaches 
he could have borne, and he had expected them. Mr. 
Perry might have been furious at the false pretences 
under which he had gained admittance into his house. 
He might even have been rude and blustering, and 
ordered him out of the house ; but instead of this he 
had spoken kindly and encouragingly, and had even 
offered him his aid. 

Harold turned away and muttered a few words of 
thanks which his emotion made almost unintelligible. 
Mr. Perry certainly meant what he said-, he was really 
sorry for the young man, standing nervously there, 
plucking at the ribbon of his hat, but he felt that he 
must give him no liope as to ultimate marriage with 
Marian. The vast wealth which had been acquired by 
distilling rum must never pass into the hands of a pen- 


200 


A DAUGRTEH^S SACBIFICK 


niless and nameless youtb. He gave him no hope for 
the future, but at the same time he spoke kindly and 
exhibited genuine feeling and sympathy. 

Then Plarold made one last request. Might he see 
Marian alone, and bid her an eternal farewell? 

The old man hesitated — was it of any use ? he asked. 
He should not like Harold to explain the circumstances 
of the case to his daughter, and how else could he 
account for his departure. 

“ I will tell her I am ruined,” said Harold, and then, 
bitterly — “ God knows I am ruined in every sense of 
the word, but I should like to see her once again.” 

Mr. Perry had not the heart to refuse the unhappy 
young man, and so he reluctantl}^ gave his consent to 
the proposed interview. In a few minutes he left the 
room and sent Marian to wish her lover good-bye. 

As soon as she entered, she saw that Harold looked 
serious, indeed, he was quite changed. The laughing 
youth seemed to have gone from his face, his eyes were 
dim and his whole manner grave and preoccupied. 

I have come to wish you good-bye,” he said, advanc- 
ing towards her and holding out’his hand, and then with 
a sad smile, “ I am afraid it will be a long farewell — 
that I shall never see you again.” 

“ My father has told me that you have had some great 
grief,” — she answered affectionately — “a grief which I 
must not know, but that you have acted wisely, and 
that you have no alternative but to leave.” 

“Yes, I must leave,” he said. “ My highest hopes 
for the future are all shattered, and I must live on the 
memory of the past. Perhaps,” and here he nearly broke 
down, “you will think of me sometimes — I shall never 
forget you.” 


A DAUGUTEB^S SACBIFICE. 


m 


“You know Harold that I love you,” she answered. 
“ Why should we be parted ? Why should I not go 
with you ? If it is poverty alone which sends you away 
I would willingly share it with you. I am not afraid 
of roughing it, and then papa is generosity itself.” 

“ It is worse than poverty,” said Harold. “ It is dis- 
honor. Do not ask me any more ; I promised your 
father that I would merely wish you good-bye and I 
must keep my word.” 

“ And I shall never see you again ? ” said Marian 
brokenly. 

“ Never,” answered Harold. “ The curse which has 
fallen upon me will remain forever.” 

And then with these few words and some tender em- 
braces the lovers parted. 


202 


d UAUGIITER'S SACRIFICE, 


CHAPTER XXVL 

ALICE’ S FUTURE. 

In reply to Mrs. Maroni’s letter, L^on de Tesles tel- 
egraphed that he would come over at once. He was cer- 
ainly annoyed at the turn things had taken. From the 
account she had given him of Kingsborough, he had 
imagined that, as far as he was concerned, it was mere- 
ly a question of mone3q and that as long as the gold 
was forthcoming he would hold his tongue. De Tesles 
was, tlierefore, more than surprised when he received 
the letter which told him that his lordship was about to 
do his worst, and had determined to kill the*goose with 
the golden eggs. He felt that it would only be fair 
tliat he should take part in the scenes which would en- 
sue. He was still devotedly fond of Helen, and he 
would defend her to the best of his power, and make 
her conduct as excusable as he could before her chil- 
dren. Then, he had a sudden desire, also, to see these 
children. Helen had always kept him away from them 
and in the careless insouciance of his youth he had al- 
lowed her to have her own way ; but now that they 
were grown up he was rather curious, if not anxious, to 
see the sort of man and woman that she had made of 
them. He had perfect confidence in her mode of edu- 
cation, he knew that she was a clever woman, possessed 
of unlimited common-sense, and that she had, in addi- 
tion, an overpowering love for them ; still the curiosity 
remained, and he was glad of the excuse to join the 


A T)AUGIITEWS SACItlFICE, 


203 


family party. Upon his arrival he learnt the truth and 
was much disappointed. Helen had been abused and 
exposed to her son by the villain Kingsborough, and 
there remained nothing for him to do but offer feeble 
words of consolation. He had looked forward to a 
meeting with his son — that son whom Helen idolized, 
and whom he knew inherited the handsome features of 
his mother. He would have liked to have seen him, 
to have grasped him by the hand and undertaken ser- 
iously the r61e of father — a r61e wliich he had never yet 
played. For his daughter he did not entertain the 
same anxiety. He had always held all women in low 
esteem, and English women in particular, and he scarce- 
ly expected that she would differ from the rest of her 
sex. He had attributed this state of things to the Eng- 
lish mode of life, and was of opinion that English 
education Was altogether superior to the French in yie 
case of boys, but utterly deplorable as concerned girls. 

“ Your boys lead healthy out-of-door lives,” he said, 
“ they are encouraged in manly sports, and become 
very different to the emasculated creatures we call men 
in my country; but with girls it is quite different. 
English girls are allowed an amount of liberty which is 
perfectly astounding, and which, nine times out of ten, 
ends in a catastrophe. There is absolutely no restraint 
put upon them ; they are permitted to do exactly what 
they please, and when they roam about alone with 
young men it is euphemistically called ‘ flirtation.’ ” 

When de Tesles arrived Mrs. Maroni had to tell him 
of the dreadful scene which had taken place between 
Harold and Kingsborough. De Tesles’ rage knew no 
bounds ; he would have liked there and then to put a 
bullet through his lordship’s head. It was useless, 


204 


A DAVGBTER^S SACRIFICE. 


however, to think of violent measures ; the man had 
been played a scurvy trick, and he had chosen his own 
method of revenge. Mrs. Maroni appealed to Leon for 
advice and consolation. Harold had spoken vaguely of 
leaving her forever, of refusing to live on de Tesles’ 
money. What could she do? She feared he might 
commit suicide. 

De Tesles was inexpressibly shocked, and, moreover, 
he w’as surprised. He scarcely realized that there were 
men in the world who would refuse to eat the bread of 
shame ; at any rate, he had never met with any possess- 
ing such high-minded notions, and he could only tell 
her that time would bring all things right, and that 
after she had had a quiet conversation with Harold he 
would probably see things in a different light. Mrs. 
Maroni shook her head. She knew Plarold better than 
he did, and she dreaded another interview with him. 
He had not spoken six words to her after Kingsborough’s 
dreadful revelations, and it was too terrible to think 
that the model son, who had loved her so dearly, now 
looked upon her with contempt. She determined, how- 
ever, to return to Pencarvon, and de Tesles was will- 
ing that Alice should pay Ihm a visit. So it was set- 
tled ; the girl’s consent was scarcely asked for, and, 
indeed, she was quite willing to acquiesce in any 
arrangement made for her future. She felt her whole 
life was broken, and she was thankful for any kindness 
shown to her. When she came into the room and be- 
held her father she showed not the slightest emotion. 
She advanced towards him and shook hands, and then 
relapsed into her former state of listlessness and in- 
difference. De Tesles glanced at her admiringly. She 
was certainly not so beautiful as her mother had been, 


A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE. 


■205 


but there was a well-bred air about her, and she un- 
doubtedly possessed a charm of manner which none 
could fail to admire. Her father became at once recon- 
ciled to the idea of having her to live with him. After 
all, lie was getting old and did not care to spend whole 
nights at the club, as he had been in the habit of doing. 
It would be a pleasant change to have this young girl 
to keep house for him, and she would remind him of 
her mother and of the happy days they had spent to- 
gether. 

There was no question of Lord Kingsborough in the 
arrangements they made. Alice was to stay with her 
father until the following spring, and if her husband 
molested her or threatened her in any way, de Tesles 
undertook to settle accounts with him, saying that he 
knew of several little episodes in his past life which 
would have the desired effect of closing his mouth. 

He would not hear of Mrs. Maroni’s making him an 
allowance. “ If he appeals to you for money, refer him 
to me,” he said, “ and he will get a little more than he 
bargains for.” 

It was a relief to Mrs. Maroni to know that Alice, at 
any rate, was provided for, and that she need have no 
further anxiety on her account, but there still loomed 
in the distance the difficulty of Harold’s future. 

Mrs. Maroni had not felt equal to making any 
further explanation concerning Kingsborough’s revel- 
ations before he left London. She had said that all 
was not true, that her son must hear her version, but 
the words were not forthcoming by which she was to 
exculpate herself, and Harold had given her no en- 
couragement to proceed. It was against all laws that 
a mother should have to defend herself to her son, and 


206 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


this they both felt. Harold was anxious to save his 
mother any further pain, and Mrs. Maroni had still a 
remnant of pride which made it distasteful to her to 
make excuses for a whole life composed of deceit and 
untruth. Still, she would not allow him to leave her 
without making every effort, not only to prevent his 
doing so, but also to justify herself in some sort of way, 
for having persistently kept her children in ignorance 
of their parentage. It was with a heavy heart that she 
bade Alice and de Tesles farewell, and that she looked 
forward to another meeting with her son. What would 
happen if Harold persisted in his intention of leaving 
home and refusing to accept de Tesles’ money ? She 
must leave Cornwall, and go Heaven knows where ! 
She must end her days, as she had once said to Kings- 
borough, at a roulette table or in the gutter. 

Her children were completely alienated from her. 
Alice had been as cold to her as it was possible for a 
daughter to be, and Harold talked of leaving her for- 
ever. Perhaps her darling son would relent. He might 
be more lenient to her when he knew all the circum- 
stances of the case, and heard that de Tesles had a 
wife — a fact which was the sole cause of his not having 
legitimated his children. It was a faint hope, but she 
dwelt on it during the long and dreary journey to Corn- 
wall, and by the time she reached Pencarvon the 
pleasure of seeing Harold again and this same faint 
hope gave her better spirits and more courage with 
which to encounter the ordeal. 


A DAUGIITFE^S SACEIFICi;. 


207 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

When Mrs. Maroni arrived at “The House ” she 
was informed at once by Mrs. James that “ Master 
Harold,” as the old nurse continued to call him, was 
on the point of leaving. He had been making all his 
preparations for departure, and his mother had only 
just arrived in time to see him. 

Mrs. Maroni told her faithful housekeeper of the 
scene that had taken place in London. Of course the 
old woman who had nursed Alice and Harold was 
bound to know the truth. Mrs. James took as great 
an interest in the family as if it was her own, and loved 
the two children with a mother’s love. She literally 
gasped with horror when Mrs. Maroni told her that 
Lord Kingsborough had divulged the story of her 
mistress’s early life. 

“ It is all over now,” moaned Mrs. Maroni, pleased 
to have this sympathetic old woman to talk to. “ The 
work of years has been undone by a few words from 
his slanderous tongue.” And she proceeded to tell 
Mrs. James exactly ho w_ things had happened. When 
she came to the point where Harold had sprung upon 
Kingsborough and almost throttled him, Mrs. James’s 
eyes gleamed with fire, and she said : 

“ You should have let him do it; you shouldn’t have 
separated them. The cur deserved a good thrashing.” 

But Mrs. Maroni shook her head. Violent measures 


208 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


were of no use, and the mischief was then done. She 
told Mrs. James of the efforts she intended to make to 
prevent Harold from leaving her, and she begged that 
she, too, would use her influence. He was fond of his 
old nurse, who could say more in favor of his mother 
than could Mrs. Maroni herself. Mrs. James promised 
her warmest aid. She was confident that Master Harold 
would listen to her, as he had often done when a boy 
and she had felt it necessary to lecture him with sound 
advice. She forgot that Harold was a man now and 
possessed a man’s feelings about honor, and especially 
the honor of his mother. Still, her words comforted 
Mrs. Maroni, and she went forth to seek Harold in 
rather an easier state of mind than she had enjoyed for 
the last few days. 

She found her son in the library arranging books on 
the shelves, and he scarcely looked up as she entered 
the room. 

Mrs. Maroni went straight at the point. It was no 
use whatever to beat about the bush and talk conven- 
tionally when there was such a grave issue at tand. 

“ Nannie tells me you are leaving, dear,” she said. 
“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ I have not decided yet,” he said gloomily. I 
suppose I shall go to London.” 

Then Mrs. Maroni went up to him, and laying her 
hand on his shoulder, she said with tears in her voice : 

“ Harold, it will be very cruel if you leave me. I 
may have done wrong to have kept you in the dark as 
to my past, but you surely cannot forget how I have 
loved you, or how my whole life since I came here has 
been devoted to my children.” 

‘‘ I do not blame yon, mother,” lie answered. “ It is 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 209 

not for me to judge you, but, all the same, I cannot 
remain here.” 

“ You need not remain here,” she said. “We can 
leave together : we can go abroad — anywhere ; but do 
not desert me altogether.” There was a piteous wail 
ill her voice as she uttered these last words. 

“ I have no right to live on your money,” he said, 
“ I must earn my own living, and no longer be dependent 
on that man.” 

“ He is your father,” said Mrs. Maroni ; “ who should 
have a better right to his money than you ? ” 

“ My father ! ” said Harold bitterly, “ a man who 
refuses me his name and who has dishonored you ! I 
would rather not speak of him. Besides, my mind is 
quite made up — nothing you can say will alter me.” 

“ It is not his fault that you are nameless,” said Mrs. 
Maroni. “ He would have married me years ago had 
he not had a wife.” 

“ And you have been content to usurp that wife’s 
place, and bring us up on money that was rightly hers. 
Oh ! mother^ I cannot believe it of you,” he said, turn- 
ing away from her. 

Mrs. Maroni felt the approach acutely. She hurried- 
ly began her defence. Of course she had not known 
of de Tesles’ wife when first she met him ; she had 
honestly believed that he would marry her, and it was 
only when it was too late that she found out that she 
had been betrayed. “ I suffered cruelly then,” she 
said. “ I should have been abandoned by every one. 
What could 1 do but remain with the man with whom 
I had left Cairo.” 

“ Anything would have been better than that,” an- 

14 


210 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


swered Harold, “ a life of hard work, or even death, 
would have been better than that.” 

“ I see it now,” she said, “ but it is too late.” 

“ Yes, it is too late,” said Harold, and there was not 
'a shade of pity or feeling in his voice. “We have all 
of us been forced into leading lives of deceit,” he con- 
tinued. “ I sought the love of an innocent girl who 
looked upon me as a gentleman and a man in every 
way worthy of her, and I have had to bow 1113^ head in 
shame ; to tell her father that I am a bastard, and 
that I have no right to the money I have all my life 
enjoyed.” 

Mrs. Maroni winced. 

“ Have you told them that ? ” she said. 

“ I was obliged to tell them,” he answered. “ I told 
Mr. Perry that I was leaving Pencarvon forever, and 
I was bound to give him my reasons for doing so.” 

There was a long pause, and then Mrs. Maroni burst 
out ciying and said : 

“ Oh ! Harold, have you no pity for me ? Is your 
love for me really dead ? Think how I have loved you 
— you who have been m3* idol for twenty years. I 
cannot let you go without you say one kind word to 
me.” 

“You have been an excellent mother, I know,” he 
said, “ but your kindness has been cruel. Your secret 
was bound to be discovered some da3*, and it would 
have been better to bring us up as the waifs and strays 
we were than to place us in a fool’s paradise — better, 
perhaps, if you had neglected us altogether.” 

“ Ah ! no, Harold, do not say that,” sobbed Mrs. 
Maroni, “surely you cannot be ungrateful for the 
years of devotion I have given you. I never thought 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


211 


to hear you, my idolized son, say that he would be 
thankful if he had never known his mother ! ” 

Harold did not answer, and then Mrs. Maroni pro- 
ceeded : 

“ Yes, it would have been better. You are right,” 
she said. “I have seen women in my position who 
brouglrt up their children to despise every one, to hate 
the world and to live only for their own ends ; to laugh 
at honor and all fine feelings. Those women were 
right. At any rate, their children had no illusions, 
and probably loved their mothers better than you love 
.me now. I was wrong to make you believe in honor 
and rectitude. The result is that you despise me and 
that you say things which cut me like a knife.” 

“ Jt has all been a mistake,” said Harold. “ I dare- 
say you acted for the best, only we shall never agree 
on the subject. I must leave you, mother, and I must 
try and forget my past life.” 

“ What will become of me ? ” said Mrs. Maroni, 
“abandoned by my children, what will become of 
me?” 

“You will have Alice,” said Harold. “I am afraid 
she does not entertain the same feelings that I do.” 

“ It is not Alice I want,” said Mrs. Maroni, “ it is 
you, Harold ; you, my darling son, in whom I have 
always taken such a pride. God grant that you may 
never know the torture I am undergoing now ! Noth- 
ing can be so cruel as unkindness from a child. A 
mother’s love is different to all else — you do not know 
the world as I do — it is the one feeling which over- 
comes all others. Harold ! Harold ! do not leave me. 
Say one kind word, try and find some excuse for me.” 

“ I can find none,” said Harold in a hard, cold voice. 


212 A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 

“ You must do so,” continued Mrs. Maroni between 
her sobs, “ think of the past; go back to your child- 
hood. Have I ever denied you anything ? Have I ever- 
thwarted your slightest wish? Was I not always a lov- 
ing companion to you? Did I not always take an inter- 
est in all your pleasures and your work ? Do not let my 
reward be to see you turn from me with contempt.” 

“We shall be better apart,” answered Harold. “I 
will write to you sometimes, but you are no longer the 
mother that I have all my life looked upon as the best 
and noblest of women.” 

Mrs. Maroni gave one despairing cry and sank on to 
a sofa. It was all useless, she felt ; her punishment was 
complete. She had tried all she knew to soften him, 
but his heart was adamant, and he would not listen to 
her. Henceforth she was nothing to him, for she must 
either go back to the old life of dissipation and pleasure 
or eat her heart out in vain regrets for her lost son. 

“ What shall you do ?” she said presently, looking up 
at him with tear-stained face. 

“ I shall enlist,” was Harold’s curt reply. 

“ Enlist ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Maroni. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ Mr. Perry offered to find me 
some employment, but I shall not avail myself of his 
kindness. I feel I have no right to accept anything 
from an3^body. I must cut out my own career, and in 
my present mood a soldier’s life is the one which pleases 
me most.” 

“ Why should you enlist ? ” said Mrs. Maroni eagerly. 
“ You could easily pass the examination, and you are 
not be3^ond the age for entering the army.” 

“ One must have an income to be an officer,” he said 
“ and I have none.” 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


213 


Then she attempted to persuade him from this idea, 
and spoke even more pleadingly than she had done be- 
fore, but Harold was obdurate and would not listen to 
he . His mind was made up ; he was going to leave 
for London that day, and he would enlist as soon as 
possible. 

Then Mrs. Maroni rose and steadied herself at the 
table. His last words, hard and unrelenting, had shown 
how firm he was, and how useless it was for her toper- 
severe in her endeavor to make him remain. 

“ I have said all I can, Harold,” she began in a 
trembling voice. “ May you never regret the action 
you are taking to-day, and may you never know how you 
have made me suffer.” 

“ I have done so unintentionally,” he said. “It is 
useless to prolong the discussion.” 

“ Yes, it is useless,” said Mrs. Maroni, keeping back 
her tears. “ I see 3 ^our mind is made up. I will only 
ask God to bless you and direct your footsteps in the 
right path.” 

Then he advanced toward her, and in a kinder voice 
he said: 

“ Good-bye mother.” 

Mrs. Maroni did not answer; she was choking, and 
the tears were streaming down her cheeks. 

“ I don’t suppose we shall meet again,” he continued, 
but if ever I earn a name for myself, and feel that 1 
can hold up my head, we may do so.” 

“We shall never meet again,” said Mrs. Maroni 
mechanically. 

Then he kissed her on the forehead, and Mrs. Maroni 
flung her arms wildly round his neck, and as he disen- 
gaged himself from her embrace she only murmured, 
“We shall never meet again.” 


214 


A LAUGHTEIVS SACRIFICE. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WHERE THE WEARY ARE AT REST. 

When Harold left his mother with her wailing cry 
still in his ears — We shall never meet again,” he pro- 
ceeded to his room and packed up just the few neces- 
saries that he would require to exist in London until he 
had fulfilled his intention of enlisting. Mrs. Maroni 
remained in the library and was discovered there an 
hour later by Mrs. James. She told the old house- 
keeper all that happened — the inflexibility of Harold 
and his determination to leave Pencarvon, and Mrs. 
James was horrified. She had never foreseen such a 
terrible end of this tranquil life. She thought the days 
for scenes and reproaches were over when Helen left 
M. de Tesles and came to reside in Cornwall. In her 
ignorant old mind she could scarcely grasp the fact that 
Harold refused to live on his father’s money and had 
spoken unkindly to his mother. It seemed impossible 
to her that the life which had gone on so calmly for 
fifteen years should all at once be broken up, and that 
Mrs. Maroni should stand there before her a ruined and 
heart-broken woman. She tried her best to console her 
mistress. She told her that Harold would think better 
of his determination — he was a high-spirited young 
man, and he was acting simply on impulse, but she 
knew he loved his mother, and it would not be long 
before he proved it. But Mrs. Maroni knew better. 
The poor lady remembered all her son’s bitter speeches, 


A DAUGIITUR^S SACIilFJCI^. 


215 


in which he had not attempted to spare her. Indeed, 
he would not even hear her defence. He must go his 
own way, and she must realize the fact that his love 
for her was dead and gone. They sat there, these two 
women, Mrs. Maroni hopeless and despairing, and 
“Nannie,” doing her best to console her. The old 
nurse was very bitter against Harold, and thought he 
had beliaved badly, but Mrs. Maroni would not hear a 
word against him. “ It is all my fault,” she declared; 
“ Harold is in no way to blame.” 

She knew that it would be useless to see him before 
he left, and she went to her room with heavy, weary 
footsteps, and sat herself down to think. She had said 
to him — “ What will become of me ?” and the thought 
again recurred to her. Her life was done with — her 
presence was hateful to her son, and he had told her so 
in as many words. What was there in life that she 
could look forward to? Nothing. She was calm now, 
the passion of the morning had left her, and she could 
look quietly at the future. All was dark and forbid- 
ding. There did not appear a gleam of light in her 
horizon. She sat in her room with her head supported 
by her two hands, and as all she had gone through 
during the last few days recurred to her, she exclaimed 
aloud : “ I wonder I am not mad ; ” and then came the 
thought of death — a quiet, painless death whicli would 
carry her far beyond this world and all its troubles, and 
wliich would be her expiation. She never shuddered as 
she tliought of putting an end to a life wliich as yet 
was but half achieved. Death would liberate her from 
the stigma which was attached to her name, and it 
would give her peace in another world. She had some 
laudanum in an old bottle stored away in a cupboard. 


216 


A BAUGIITEE^S SACBIFICE, 


One drink at the fatal contents of this bottle and all 
would be over. Her son would no longer have her 
there as a reproach, and her martyrdom would be over. 
She walked to the cupboard and took the bottle from 
its shelf. It was half-full — there was more than enough 
to kill her, and she looked at it longingly, as if it con- 
tained a happy release to all her trouble. Harold would 
be shocked when he heard of her death, but it would 
be a relief to him. He would perhaps regret his harsh- 
ness, the unforgiving words he had spoken to her, but 
it were better thus — he would know then how she had 
loved him, and that she had preferred death to living 
without liis love. She grasped the phial almost lov- 
ingly ; it seemed to her to contain so many comforting 
elements; and the thought occurred to her that she 
would write him a few farewell words — words of un- 
utterable love and forgiveness. 

She sat down at the writing table and placed the 
laudanum by her side and in a firm hand she wrote 
as follows • • 

“ My Darling Boy — 

“ When I said that we should never meet again, I 
had no idea that my words would come so quickly 
true. You spoke harshly to me this morning, dear, and 
I am too weak and ill to forget your words. They have 
entered my very heart and taken all life out of me. You 
did not mean to be unkind, dear, and you did not know 
the pain you caused me when you said ‘ I should have 
done better to have neglected you altogether,’ — ^but I 
feel the cruelty of what you said, and it is more than I 
can bear. I am going to die, darling Harold; I am 
about to face my Maker and ask His forgiveness for 


A DAUGHTIJB^S SACRIFICE:. 


217 


the sins you judged so harshly. It is the only expia- 
tion in my power, and I trust that when I am removed 
from this earth you will be happier .and be able to start 
afresh in life. It is no sacrifice that I am making, for 
I feel that I have nothing left worth living for. My 
life has not been a happy one, and now that you -are 
lost to me, I do not regret putting an end to it. I feel 
how wrongly I acted in keeping from you the secret of 
your birth, but I assure you I did it for the best. 
There is one more thing I should like to say before I 
wish you good-bye forever, and it concerns Lord Kings- 
borough’s accusations against me. He said I lived a 
life of vicious indulgence until I was satiated with it, 
and then I took you to the country. This is not true. 
I lived with M. de Tesles a life of misery. He will 
tell you so himself. There were no da3"s on which 
I did not reproach him for the deceit he had practised 
upon me, and it was when I could bear that existence 
no longer that I determined to leave him. That I 
was wrong to do so I now see — I should have remained 
with him and brought you up in haphazard fashion. 
This is the lesson of the world, and the lesson that you 
taught me this morning. But, as I can, at least, wipe 
out my evil life by death, I have chosen to do so, and 
I do not now regret that I have done my best to make 
you a gentleman, and that I leave behind me a son who 
is in every respect a worthy and honorable man. 
The curse of my existence has, through my own sel- 
fishness on your behalf, fallen on your sister, and it is 
a proof that the sins of the parents shall be visited 
upon the children. I will not tire you by writing 
any more. Try to forget the events of the last few 
days ; think only of me, darling Harold, as the mother 


218 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


who loved you more than her life ; think of the happy 
days we have spent together, of my tender care of you 
during childhood, of my increasing pride as you grew 
up to manhood, and then forget the double life I have 
led, and say a few kind words of forgiveness over my 
grave.” 

The poor heart-broken woman who wrote these lines 
did not once read them over when she had finished 
writing. She sat there, pen in hand, gazing absently 
at the bottle of poison before her, and seemingly un- 
able to move. Harold would be sorry, she thought, 
when he heard of her death, but it would relieve him 
of her reproachful presence, and, in her excited, over- 
wrought condition she considered she was doing right. 
Pi'esently she rose from her seat, and passing into her 
dressing-room, she changed her dress for a long, white 
flowing robe, and then she walked quietly up to the table, 
and, having placed her letter in an envelope, she ad- 
dressed it to her son. Tlien she took up the bottle of 
laudanum, and still it did not inspire her with any hor- 
ror. She poured some out in a glass, nearly all the bottle 
contained, and then laid herself down on the sofa and 
drank it off at a draught. “ God be merciful to me 
a miserable sinner,” she said as she closed her eyes in 
her last sleep. 

***** * 

A few hours later Mrs. James, bringing her some 
tea, discovered her thus. Her hands were crossed on 
her bosom, and the handsome features were statue-like 
in their severe beauty of outline. Death had not 
ravaged her, she seemed to be only sleeping ; but Mrs. 


A DAUGHTER’S SACRIFICE. 


219 


James saw the empty bottle by her side, and she knew 
at once that her well-loved mistress had sought for for- 
giveness in another world. 

The housekeeper ran at once for Harold, and found 
him on the point of leaving the house. The old 
woman’s grief knew no bounds, and she was angry 
with Harold for being, as she considered, the cause of 
Ids mother’s death. 

“ Come and see your work,” she screamed at him. 
“ Come and see the mother you have killed.” 

Then Harold rushed to his mother’s room, and saw 
at once what had happened. He feverishly tore open 
her letter and read her last despairing words, and then 
he flung himself on his knees by her side, and prayed 
aloud that he also might be taken. 


220 


A DAirGIITi:R'S SACniFICK 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS. 

A FEW days later Helen de Tesles was lying peace- 
fully at rest under the shadow of the yew trees in the 
quiet Cornish churchyard. Meantime, Harold had 
obtained from Mrs. James full particulars as to his 
mother’s past life. As soon as the funeral was over, 
he received a visit from his mother’s lawyer, and as- 
certained from that gentleman that he was worth some- 
thing like fifty thousand pounds. His mind, as we 
have seen, was made up the moment he learnt from 
Lord Kingsborough the^real position of affairs, and he 
now saw no reason to alter his resolution. The young 
man converted everything into money with the ex- 
ception of his mother’s jewels, and these, together with 
the large fortune he had inherited, he sent to his father. 
To M. de Tesles he wrote : 

“Much as I cherish and venerate the memory of my 
much-wronged mother, I have no intention of retaining 
money that originally came from such hands as yours. 
I am not lost to all feelings of honor although I am 
your son. Keep the money to gild the cage of some 
other victim.” 

To liis sister he wrote : 

“You must, of course, decide for yourself, but I 
cannot help saying that if I were you I would give up 
every farthing that had come to me from my father, 
and try to earn my bread by honest work. Were I 


A DAUGIITBB'S SACBTFICi:. 221 

you, I would sooner drudge as a nursery governess 
than remain under the roof of the man who ruined 
your mother’s life.” 

Within a week later, Harold made his way to the 
cavalry dep6t'at Canterbury, and there enlisted in the 
90th Hussars. He found the work very hard and uncon- 
genial, but he faced his troubles and difficulties boldly, 
and, thanks to the kindness, of the captain of his troop, 
who quickly saw of what mettle the young man was made 
and took a great fancy to him, he was spared many of 
the annoyances that encompass the path of the recruit. 
In a few months’ time Harold passed his drill, and Avas 
just going out with the draft to India, when a chance 
arose for volunteering for the Camel Corps about to be 
sent out to the Soudan. It is needless to say that he 
embraced with eagerness this opportunity of distinguish- 
ing himselh He proved an excellent soldier, and after 
quickly passing through the intermediate grades was 
promoted to the rank of sergeant. Then, one day, his 
great chance came. An officer of Lancers had had his 
horse shot under him, and was surrounded by Soudan- 
ese thirsting for his blood. Harold, catching hold of a 
stray horse galloped to the rescue, and although badly 
wounded himself, managed to get the officer out of ac- 
tion. For this gallant deed the general commanding 
the division recommended him for the Victoria Cross, 
and when he returned home after the campaign he was 
further rewarded by the gift of a commission. 

Now all this time Marian Perry had been pining after 
her lover, and had at length become seriously ill. From 
the moment that Harold had bidden her farewell she 
had implored her father to recall him, and the old gentle- 


222 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE, 


man, who had all along felt inclined to yield, found in 
young Maroni’s brilliant achievements a very fitting 
opportunity of doing so. He, therefore, promised his 
daughter that she should have her way, and added 
that he would receive her lover as his son. Mr. Perry 
lost no time in writing to Harold as follows : 

“ Dear Mr. Maroni, 

“ I hope you will permit an old friend and sincere 
well-wisher to congratulate you upon your brilliant 
success. At our last m ter view I formed an exceedingly 
high opinion of you and looked upon your conduct as 
the most honorable and upright that I had ever met 
with. At the same time I frankly admit that I did not 
encourage your union with my daughter, and was short- 
sighted enough to accept without demur your suggestion 
that such an alliance was, under all the circumstances, 
out of the question. 

“ Let me ask your pardon for my stupidity, and plead 
in extenuation that your communication came upon me 
so suddenly that I was scarcely competent on the spur 
of the moment to come to a wise and proper conclusion. 

“ I now beg you to honor my family by consenting to 
become one of its members. Marian is longing to hear 
from you, and still more longs to see you. Let your 
reply — and let me hope a quick reply — be sent to her 
and comfort her heart and delight mine. 

“I will trouble you no more than by saying that 
the greatest pride of my life will be upon the day that 
you will become my son-in-law, if, indeed, you will so 
honor me. 

“ Most truly yours, 

“ MaTTUEW PERRYe’^ 


A BAlTGJimii^S SACRIFICE. 


223 


It would be easy to guess Harold’s reply to this 
kindly letter. The young soldier answered it in person 
and in a few weeks Marian and he were married. 

Alice Kingsborough still remains with her father. 
It is scarcely to be wondered at that she was unable to 
adopt her brother’s advice. It is given to few of us to 
take such a high-minded course as Harold Maroni felt 
compelled to take, and poor Alice may well be forgiven 
if she did not possess enough strength of character to 
follow her brother’s example. M. de Tesles lavishes 
upon her every luxury ; his daughter is his first consider- 
ation, and it is only fair to say that he does all in his 
power to make Alice’s life a peaceful and contented one. 

Madame de Tesles has lately died, and L^on de 
Tesles has performed the scant justice of legitimating 
his children, as by French law allowed. Alice, who 
gave birth to a son, which bears Kingston’s name, 
lavishes upon the little fellow all the care and devo- 
tion that a fond mother is capable of. The boy is her 
one consolation, and indeed she lives for nothing else. 

Harold has always refused to see his father. “ I do 
not blame him,”said Ldon de Tesles one day, speaking to 
his daughter on the subject, “ My conduct was unjus- 
tifiable viewed from any stand-point possible — utterly 
unjustifiable. And my greatest punishment is that the 
son I am proud of and long to embrace, with a longing 
I have never known, refuses to recognize my existence. 
The cup has come to my lips at last, and I suppose that 
I must drink it to the very dregs.” 

It may be doubted whether any man ever so utterly 
regretted an act of his life as did Lord Kingsborough, 
when he came to consider calmly the revenge he had 


224 


A DAUGHTER S SACRIFICE, 


taken on Mrs. Maroni. He found himself in a most 
ridiculous position and at the same time utterly penniless. 
At his wits’ end he wrote to L^on de Tesles for assist- 
ance. He said that he had taken legal advice, and had 
ascertained that Alice’s marriage with Kingston was 
perfectly valid ; and, that being so, it was quite clear 
that he could, if he chose, successfully maintain a suit 
for nullity of marriage, on the ground of his wife’s wilful 
misdescription of herself, and unless M. de Tesles con- 
sented to allow him a handsome income he should at 
once file a petition. 

Alice’s father treated this letter with the contempt 
that it deserved. “ You can take any course you think 
proper,” he said. “ I, for my part, can only regret that 
the frenzy of a woman driven to the verge of madness 
by your dastardly threats has been the cause of my 
daughter having associated her name with yours. She 
and I will be thankful to the law if it enables her to rid 
herself of a name borne by and derived from such a 
rascal as yourself. 

“ As for your impudent demand for money, I would 
not give you a franc to save you from the starvation 
you so justly merit. Never have the audacity to ad- 
dress me again.” 

Lord Kingsborough did not go to law. The fact is 
that he had no money, and, curiously enough, solici- 
tors are, as a rule, disinclined to embark in expensive 
litigation on behalf of a client unless they can see the 
prospect of getting some money either at present or in 
the future out of somebody’s pocket. No such vision 
presented itself on this occasion, and three firms of 
solicitors whom Lord Kingsborough consulted — Messrs. 
Proudfoot and Dawdle, Messrs. Sharp, Quicksetter, 


A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. 


225 


Blazer and Sharp, and Messrs. Shadracli, Meshach and 
Abednego — declined in more or less polite terms to 
have anything to do with the affair. 

It was not a bright look-out for Lord Kingsborough, 
and that nobleman fully realized the painful fact. 
The downward path of such a man is very rapid. He 
succeeded, upon the strength of his title, in getting 
credit from a few confiding tradespeople, but these folk 
speedily discovered what sort of customer they had to 
deal with, and declined the honor of his further pat- 
ronage. 

At. last, being reduced to the direst straits, he be- 
thought himself of his old friend Mrs. Potter, and to 
Clan William Terrace he accordingly directed his steps. 
But here again he was doomed to meet with disap- 
pointment. Mrs. Potter, who in the meantime had 
consoled herself with a stalwart undertaker — a gentle- 
man who looked as if he would stand no nonsense — 
received him with the utmost coldness, and, after hav- 
ing been called upon to answer some searching and 
unpleasant questions on the part of the twins, and to 
put up with a good deal of gruff familiarity from Mr. 
Winder — Mrs. Potter’s present partner — he thought it 
best to beat a retreat. 

Lord Kingsborough’s future is not hard to predict. 
He has taken to drink. It is astonishing how men 
circumstanced as he find money with which to buy 
brandy, but, anyhow, it is the fact that they are rarely 
without the means to gratify their terrible craving. 
Delirium tremens and the drunkard’s death seem all 
that are in store for one who so strikingly exemplifies 
in his own person the truth of the proverb that “the 
way of transgressors is hard.” 


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